TWO  SONNETS 

[For  the  Transcript) 

I. 

MARG-UE'RITES 
plucked  the 'marguerites  I  loved  so  well, 
Vith  yellow  petals  that  seemed  one  by  one 
Jke   dazzling  rays  drawn   downward   from 

the  sun 
And  circling  set,   till  to  these  flowers 

fell. 

"O   signals    of   the    past,"    I    said,      go    t 
the    birds    high    singing,    with    the    Spring 

o'errun. 
Ye  will  be  breathless  when  Spring's  self  is 

done. 
Who  heard  their  playmate  answering  from 

the  dell." 

Careless  I  pass,  though  gorgeous  to  behold 
Myriads  of  wildflowers  that  the  light  winds 

swing. 

For  these,  brimmed  with  the  moon's  incar 
nate  gold. 
That  to  their  sunrayed  hearts  the  old  light 

bring, 

Till  I  can  see,  as  years  had  backward  rolled, 
That    star-voiced    child     still,     star-voiced, 
chasing  Spring. 

II. 

JUNE  AT  CHOCORUA 
Mount,   blood   of   summer,    mount   up,    east  I 

and  west, 
And  sweep  the  heavens  with  thine  enflood- 

ing  glow, 
Till  the  whole  world,  like  a  past  rose   will 

blow. 

Thy  tidal   blushes   to  Us  petals   pressed; 
Mount,    and    suffuse     Chocorua's    unbared 

breast, 

And  reckless  of  Silurian  centuries,  flow 
Through  its  stone  veins,  till  it  shall  warm- 
breathed  grow 

.  And  rouse,  majestic,  from  its  ageless  rest. 
Unto    the    turquoise  moon    new    turquoise 

•bring 

Till  the  great  mountain  shall  imperial  wear 
Jewels  its   royal   brow   emblazoning; 
And   to   the    stars   that   prick    through   twi 
light,  bear 
Gold    fires,     that    through    immensity    will 

spring, 

And  make  its  purple  palace  still  more  fair 
MRS.  WHITON-STONB 


THE     TRIUMPH     OF     LOVE 

[For  the  Transcript] 
TWO    SONNETS 

I. 

With    a    transcendent     smile     Love     came 

Vnd  held*  me,  willing  captive,   through  the 

days, 
,eading    o'er    flowering    fields    and    sylva.n 

ways, 

'hat  I  his  infinite  domain   might   see: 
nnumerable  'birds,   wild-winged  and  free, 
Swept,    singing,    eastward    pa&t    the 

fuR   rays, 
And     jonquils     with     their    golden     hearts 

ablaze 
•lashed,  with  the  joy  of  Spring,  their  joy 

to  me: 
On,    on    and    on,    I    wandered,    at    Loves 

side, 

Until   far  out  beyond  the  horizons  verge, 
The   darkness   dropped-the    sun    itself   had 

died; 

And  losing  foothold,  I  was  gulfed  in  surge 
Of  griefs  o'erwhelming  sea.   "Love,  Love, 

I  cried, 

'Hast  thou  betrayed  with  rapture,  thus 
scourge?" 

II. 
Love    drew    me    to    the    shore,    and    though 

the    night 
Was  lingering  yet,  and  though  I  still  heard 

moan 
Of    that    insurgent    sea,    the    heavens    had 

grown 

Lambent,   as  with  a  planet's  soul   in  sight. 
O   Love,"    I    whispered,    "though    I   swoon 

with  might ' 
Of  swelling  tides,  thou  the  same  tides  hast 

known; 
Which    path    thou    choosest    : 

mine  own; 

Lead  on,   thou  -canst  the  sun   that  died  re 
light." 

Behold,    I   have   kept   faith   with  Love,    al 
though 
O'er    countless    Calvarys    my     feet    have 

past, 
For    always    on    their    up-reared    crosses, 

glow 

Of  his  seraphic  presence  has  been  cast; 
And  mightier  than  grief's  awful  undertow 
Love  has  uplifted,  yea,  and  held  me  fast. 
MBS.  WHITON-STONE 


MAGNOLIAS 
The    full    moon   o'er     the   dazzling    hill-tops 

sails 

And  shines  translucent  on   the  grass  below 
And  I  half  listen,  as  once  long  ago, 
On   the  campagna,   for  the   nightingales; 
The    nightingales    sing   not,    but    'cross    the 

vales 
Divinely    borne    by    perfumed    winds    that 

blow, 

Laments  of  whippoorwills  onwafted  go 
To  where,  full  opened,   the  magnolia  pales; 
Flooded    with    splendor    the    magnolias    vie 
With  flowers   of   Rome;    and   the  ensilvered 

hills 
Might    be    her    classic    throne,     save    that 

near  by 

Their  tangled  deeps  enbosom  whippoorwills. 
And  yet  what  matters  it,  far  hills  or  nigh, 
When  the  same  white  May  moon  the  whole 
world   thrills? 

C.  E.  W.  STONE 


s 


Z-oifg 


BY 
0. 


WITH    PORTRAIT 


JOSEPH   GEORGE   CUPPLES 

jpublijsfjer   anb    General    ^oofejsrenet 

25O   Boylston  St.,  Boston 


COPYRIGHT,  1891, 

BY  CARA  E._WmroN-STONB. 
All  rights  reserved. 


DEDICATION. 

Unto  the  living  who  have  known 

How  restless  were  the  wings  of  Song, 
Whose  noble  lives  have  shaped  my  own, 
These  flights  belong. 

But  holy  silences  and  calms 

Beyond  Song's  uttermost  I  give 
To  those  who  sleep  with  folded  palms  : 
My  dead  —  who  live. 


CONTENTS. 


DEDICATION v 

INTRODUCTION xv 

SONNETS. 

JANUARY    i 

FEBRUARY 2 

MARCH 3 

APRIL 4 

MAY 5 

JUNE 6 

JULY 7 

AUGUST              8 

SEPTEMBER 9 

OCTOBER 10 

NOVEMBER n 

DECEMBER 12 

WORK  .         .         .         ...         .         .         .         -13 

THERE  WAS  AN  ENCHANTED  TIME       ....  14 

SOMEWHERE,  WHEN  I   HAVE  TRAVERSED     .        .        -15 

I  CANNOT  GO  TO  MEET  THE   SPRING  16 

DESIRE 17 

JAMES   FREEMAN   CLARKE 18 


viii  CONTENTS. 

To  JOHN  G.   WHITTIER 19 

To  A  POET  IN  GRIEF 20 

GOLDEN  ROD  AND  ASTERS     ......  21 

A  JUNE  DAY 22 

AT  NIGHT 23 

EASTER 24 

IN  WESTMINSTER   ABBEY 25 

THE  FRINGED    GENTIAN        ......  26 

AT  CHRISTMASTIDE 27 

FAREWELL 28 

LOVE  !    You  WHO   KNEW 29 

Two  MOODS 30 

ACROSS  THE   SUN 32 

POOR  ROSE 33 

To  THE   DIVINE   DEAD 34 

A  PORTRAIT 35 

HER  PORTRAIT         ........  36 

HER  FRIEND'S   PORTRAIT 37 

To  THE  MORNING   STAR         ......  38 

IN  MAY 39 

AN  AUGUST  NIGHT 40 

EGYPT 41 

CHRISTMAS   MORNING      .  42 

CLYTIE      . 43 

JULIANA   HORATIA   EWING 44 

AT  GRASMERE 45 


CONTENTS.  ix 

VENUS   DE  MILO 46 

ST.  PAUL'S  CATHEDRAL 47 

THE   POET   SCULPTOR 48 

A  VISION 49 

To  MARY 50 

MINE  EYES   ARE  SCANNING 51 

SONGS. 

HER    SHIPS 55 

IT  WAS  IN  SPRING 57 

I   SAID  TO   SUMMER         .......  59 

I  MIGHT  FORGET 60 

MINER  JIM         .........  62 

RADIANT   BIRDS  ARE   SINGING 65 

GOOD  NIGHT 67 

IF 69 

UNCONOJJERED  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        -71 

THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY           •        •        •        •        •  73 

To  JULIA  WARD   HOWE 75 

A  REVERIE 77 

SOMEWHERE 79 

A   SUMMER  DAY       ........  82 

To  -                    84 

SHERMAN'S  LAST  MARCH 86 

A  SEASIDE   SKETCH         ....  80 


x  CONTENTS. 

MY  LADYE'S   EYES  ....         ...      91 

I   PRAYED   THE    ETERNAL    HEART  ....       93 

ROBERT   BROWNING .       95 

ASK   ME   NOT   WHY        .......       97 

JOHN  BOYLE   O'REILLY  .......      99 

DANTE   TO   BEATRICE      .......     101 

To   A   BLUEBIRD 102 

ROSES'   HEARTS         ........     104 

To  ONE   AFAR          ........     105 

UNSUNG 107 

MAGNOLIAS 109 

JUST  FOR  ONE    HOUR no 

BEAT,   BEAT,    MY  SOUL in 

SERENADE          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         -113 

LAVENDER         .        .        .        .        .        .         .        .        -115 

SONG 117 

JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL         .         .         .         .         .         .118 

HINGHAM   CEMETERY       .         .         .         .         .         .         ,120 

A  YELLOW  CHRYSANTHEMUM        .        .        .         .        .122 

A   FANTASIE 123 

WHAT   is   A   ROSE  ?          .         .         .         .         .         .         .125 

DREAMS     .         .         . .127 

JULIA  ROMANA  ANAGNOS 128 

REMEMBRANCE          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .130 

To   HELEN  IN   HEAVEN 131 

I  SIT  BESIDE  MY  DEAD 132 


CONTENTS.  xi 

LAMENTS. 

PRELUDE   ..........  135 

RACHAEL .  136 

NOT  THAT   SONG 140 

HE   CAME   AS   COMES  THE   SPRING        .         .         .         .142 

AN  ANSWER      .         .         .         .         .         .                  .         .  144 

THE  UNUSED  TOY      ........  146 

THRENODY         .........  148 

ADIEU        ..........  150 

LAMENT     .                                    152 

LET  ME  BUT  BE  A  BIRD 154 

His  SIXTH  BIRTHDAY 155 

His  SEVENTH  BIRTHDAY 158 

His  EIGHTH  BIRTHDAY     .......  160 

His  NINTH  BIRTHDAY 161 

His  TENTH  BIRTHDAY      .......  163 

His  ELEVENTH  BIRTHDAY 165 

His  TWELFTH  BIRTHDAY 167 

His  THIRTEENTH  BIRTHDAY 169 

His  FOURTEENTH  BIRTHDAY 171 

His  FIFTEENTH  BIRTHDAY 172 

His  TWENTY-FIRST  BIRTHDAY 174 

THOU  ART  AN  ANGEL 175 

MOONLIGHT 177 

JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE          .         .         .         •         .         .  179 

MEMORIAL  DAY,  1885 181 

SORROW 183 


SONNETS. 


When  first  in  childhood  on  the  silver  shore 
I  saw  the  seashells  in  the  sunlight  shine, 
And  built  them  into  palaces  divine, 
I  used  to  dream  I  heard  strange  music  pour 
Through  their  pink  arching  halls,  as  if  they  bore 
A  message  from  the  sea's  great  heart  to  mine. 

The  verses  I  have  writ  herein  are  sign 

I  hear  the  eternal  rhythm  as  of  yore.  — 

'Chance,  ye  who  read  may  find  some  note  to  show 

My  singing  faintly  justified  ;  for  every  tide 

That  Life  has  swept,  though  fathoms  deep  with 

woe, 

Though  passionate  with  tears,  I  have  defied,  — 
Hearing,  above  their  waves'  resistless  flow, 
Insurgent  song  that  would  not  be  denied. 


JANUARY. 

The  world  lies  fair,  beneath  the  unshadowed  skies, 
Clad  in  an  ermined  robe  the  heavens  prepare  : 
And  trees  their  crystal  weighted  splendors  bear, 
By  the  gold  sunshine  won  to  opal  guise ; 
The  river's  frozen  breast  transparent  lies  ; 
And  crisp  and  keen,  of  mountain  tops  aware, 
Down  from  the  northern  peaks  the  northern  air 
Whirls  o'er  the  sparkling  snow  that,  drifting,  flies. 
The  sunsets  roll  away  in  brilliant  tides ; 
The  twilights  linger  in  a  pale  green  light ; 
Along  the  emerald  path  the  new  moon  glides 
And  searches,  crescent-souled  some  fairer  height ; 
And  all  the  Winter's  icy  triumph  hides 
In  January's  bosom  cold  and  white. 


SONNETS. 


FEBRUARY. 

Forests  keep  frost  bound,  and  the  Winter  wears 

Its  sternest  front  these  February  days ; 

The  snow  upon  the  ground  still  frozen  stays, 

Although  the  sun,  like  a  great  king,  prepares 

To  go  forth  mighty-conquering,  and  dares 

To  hurl  his  javelins  that  flash  and  blaze 

From  out  the  fortress  of  the  heavens,  whose  ways 

He  daily  higher  traverses,  and  bares 

His  soul's  desire,  —  the  icy  bonds  to  break. 

Nor  can  the  torrents  long  be  held  from  swing 

Of  their  o'erwhelming  flow,  and  hills  will  shake 

From  off  their  rainbowed  crests  the  wreaths  that 

cling, 

And  from  its  long  deep  sleep  the  earth  will  wake 
And  feel  its  fluttering  heart  astir  with  Spring. 


SONNETS. 


MARCH. 

The  troubled  eyes  of  March  flash  out  reply 
To  my  mute  questioning  prophecies  of  Spring  ; 
For  lo  !  upon  her  yearning  bosom  cling 
The  red-gold  crocuses,  and  snow-drops  lie 
Half -hidden  'neath  her  ermined  mantle — shy 
In  the  white  joy  of  new  awakening, 
As  star-soul'd  trophies  that  the  sunbeams  bring, 
To  show  the  earth  warm  veined.     Upon  the  sky, 
In  its  gray  pallor,  dazzling  breaks  of  blue 
Enchant  the  eye,  and  the  uncovered  sun, 
(The  gusty  fitful  storm-clouds  climbing  through,) 
Shines  out,  triumphant  that  the  Spring  is  won. 
And  hark  !  across  the  heavens,  lit  up  anew, 
Birds'  songs,  like  golden  lightning,  rippling  run. 


SONNETS. 


APRIL. 

I  know  the  Spring  is  here  for  bluebirds  trill 
In  lofty  solitudes  where  hide  the  snows  ; 
And  earth,  like  a  great  radiant  crystal,  glows 
In  the  deep  sunshine  beautiful  and  still. 
And  soon  the  color  of  the  heavens  will  thrill 
The  flowers  to  waken,  and  in  tidal  flows 
Of  their  own  azure,  violets  will  unclose, 
And  warm  blood  veins  of  the  arbutus  fill. 
The  dawns  will  plunge  themselves  to  seas  of  red, 
And  low-hung  moons  lend  daffodils  their  gold, 
And  suns  unsheath  their  radiant  spears  o'erhead  ; 
And  I  shall  watch  the  budding  life  unfold, 
With  a  great  aching  longing  for  the  dead, 
Whose  hands  the  flowers  of  Spring  forever  hold. 


SONNETS. 


MAY. 

The  violets  have  come.     The  south  winds  blow, 
Impatient  hurrying,  as  in  Summer's  quest, 
Straight    from    the   gulf  stream,  and   the   earth's 

warm  breast, 

Whereon  the  sunshine  lies  and  grasses  grow, 
Is  now  with  the  arbutus  bloom  aglow ; 
The  bees,  new-waked  to  life,  unwearying  test 
Their  olden  haunts,  and  hum  with  soft  unrest 
In  white  campanulas,  that  to  and  fro 
Chime  mystic  tunes  of  shadow  and  of  shine. 
And  lo !  great  gusts  of  joy  my  soul  o'ersweep, 
And  I  am  filled  with  passion  so  divine, 
So  strangely  sweet,  it  seems  as  I  could  keep 
Pace  with  the  song  of  birds,  and  feel  as  mine 
The  unfettered  pulses  of  the  Spring  that  beat. 


SONNETS. 


JUNE. 

Dizzy  with  song,  gay  birds  fan  through  the  air 
And  showers  of  liquid  music  downward  send  ; 
And  daisies  to  the  fresh  young  grasses  lend 
A  silver  radiance,  as  of  June  aware  : 
The  hearts  of  wayside  roses  are  laid  bare, 
And  buttercups,  that  to  the  breezes  bend, 
In  yellow  billows  with  the  sunshine  blend, 
And  in  its  glow  the  leaves  are  glistening  fair ; 
On  noiseless  wings  pale  amber  butterflies 
Float  by,  and  wild  bees  murmur  to  the  noon 
—  Lingering  beneath  their  purple  canopies  — 
The  clover's  secrets  in  a  lazy  tune  ; 
And  in  the  sapphire  heavens  incarnate  lies 
The  matchless  splendor  of  the  matchless  June. 


SONNETS. 


JULY. 

Behind  the  brazen  dawn,  the  July  sun 

Lies  like  a  circling  fire,  and  burning  through, 

Melts  the  whole  outspread  heavens  to  blazing  blue, 

And  shines  till  late-mown  valleys  are  o'errun 

With  fiercest  languors.     Sharp-winged  insects  shun 

The  lurid  atmosphere,  and,  lost  to  view, 

Draw  forth  their  tiny  instruments  anew, 

And  pipe  the  sultry  noontides  shrilly  on. 

The  butterflies  slow  loitering  drift  away 

From  the  wild-roses'  wooing  hearts,  and  hide 

With  bees   that,  hushed  by  heat,  their  humming 

stay, 

In  chalices  whose  dews  were  later  dried  ; 
And  flaming  forth  in  tropical  array, 
Nasturtiums  drink  Midsummer  undenied. 


SONNETS. 


AUGUST. 

The  mists  of  morning  hide  the  skies'  deep  blue, 
Though  wind-tossed  sunflowers,  gold  with  noon 
tides,  bear 

Their  shadow-hearted  splendor  through  the  air  ; 
And  asters,  glad  with  purple,  spring  anew ; 
But  the  whole  August  glory  cannot  woo 
The  birds  to  song,  and  twilights  pale  and  fair 
Are  darkened  with  the  swallows  sailing  where 
Another  summer  waits.     The  heavy  dew 
Falls  earlier,  and  whippoorwills  complain 
In  forest  deeps.     Great  vivid  moons  arise, 
Burning  and  fierce  as  passionate  with  pain  ; 
And,  deep  within,  a  sense  of  sadness  lies ; 
For,  whatso'er  of  beauty  may  remain, 
The  soul  of  Summer  with  the  swallow  flies. 


SONNETS.  9 


SEPTEMBER. 

The  skies  look  sadder  :  Summer  has  gone  by,  — 
But  the  late  wan-faced  dandelions  reign  ; 
And  gold  gerardias  have  come  back  again, 
And  azure  gentians  and  the  primrose  high. 
The  air  still  throbs  with  heat,  and  noisy  fly 
The  gay  cicadas  through  the  rustling  grain, 
Grating  the  air,  in  a  long-drawn  refrain, 
With  tireless  monotones  of  ecstasy  :  — 
The  cardinals  flame.     Red  clustering  berries  line 
The  leaf-illumined  ways,  and  deeper  grows 
The  wild  grape's  color,  in  whose  prisoned  wine 
The  blood  of  June,  still  burning,  tided  flows. 
Summer  dies  not,  for  all  that  is  divine 
Lives  in  some  goldener  force,  some  fairer  rose. 


io  SONNETS. 


OCTOBER. 

The  wooded  waysides  with  a  royal  grace 

The  color  of  the  eupatoriums  bear  ; 

The  wild  grapes,  lending  perfume  to  the  air, 

Riot  in  dazzle  of  the  sun's  full  face ; 

The  hills  stand  calm,  each  in  its  purple  place  ; 

And  bees,  late-searching  'mid  the  flowers,  outbear 

Their  souls  in  noisy  triumphing,  aware 

What  affluence  still  hides  in  gold-lit  space ; 

The  heavens  in  a  blue  ecstasy  appear  ; 

And  sumach  fires  are  lit,  as  beacons  set 

Amid  the  solitudes  for  Autumn's  cheer ; 

The  sunsets,  streaming  into  rainbows,  let 

Their  colors  linger  till  the  stars  draw  near ; 

And  the  sweet  days  —  in  trance  of  violet  — 

Burn  passionate  with  glory  of  the  year. 


SONNETS.  ii 


NOVEMBER. 

The  golden  days  are  past.     The  chill  bleak  skies 
Brood  sullen  o'er  the  earth,  and  hints  of  dew 
Lurk  in  the  long  lank  grass  the  whole  day  through  ; 
The  wailing  winds  in  cold  fierce  gusts  arise, 
Sweeping  the  leafless  branches  into  sighs. 
Yet  sometimes  in  the  transient  rifts  of  blue 
A  shadowy  splendor  shimmers  forth  anew, 
Like  the  lost  Summer  in  a  ghostly  guise  :  — 
On  graves  of  gentians,  in  their  sleep  unstirred, 
The  dead  leaves,  rustling   forth   their   requiems, 

throng ; 

And  'chance,  by  the  fleet  sunshine  won,  some  bird 
—  In  solitary  flight  delayed  too  long  — 
Above  the  pines  is  desolately  heard 
Startling  the  noontides  with  a  pallid  song. 


12  SONNETS. 


DECEMBER. 

Straight  through  the  solemn  waiting  east  dawns 

sweep 

O'erflooding  tides  of  rose,  and  great  suns  loom, 
Like  splendid  flowers  rushed  suddenly  to  bloom, 
And  up  the  horizon,  gorgeous-hearted,  leap. 
The  skies,  magnificent  with  azure,  steep 
The  snows  with  their  own  color,  no4pnd  room, 
As  in  the  Autumn's  later  days,  for  gloom  :  — 
For  Winter  holds  a  rapture  high  and  deep, 
Bearing  the  joy  of  centuries  as  its  own, 
Knowing  its  sacred  claim  to  crowning  place 
In  the  year's  triumph,  since  its  sun  first  shone 
'Upon  the  Immortal  Child's  immortal  face : 
Nor  can  the  glory  ever  be  outgrown,  — 
Therefore  December's  wonder  and  its  grace. 


SONNETS.  13 


WORK. 

I  count  more  royal  than  a  king's,  the  hand 
Whose  hardened  palm,  with  scarring  lines,  gives 

sign 

Of  labor  bravely  done ;  it  is  the  brand 
Of  future  angelhood  ;  and  God's  divine 
Delay  in  giving  is  but  as  a  chance 
Most  opportune,  for  truth's  unfledged  desires 
To  grow  to  fairest  wings.     The  soul's  advance 
Is  surely  swifter  even  as  it  aspires. 
And  who  would  shun  life's  toil,  and  idly  dream, 
When  out  of  chaos  countless  worlds,  arrayed 
In  marvellous  beauty,  came  as  work  supreme 
From  the  Creative  hands  ?     What  He  has  made 
Mainspring  of  his  illimitable  plan 
Should  be,  and  is,  divinest  gift  to  man. 


14  SONNETS. 


I. 

There  was  an  enchanted  time,  dear  heart,  I  knew 
The  infinite  of  Joy,  for  I  had  found 
Love's  uttermost   peak,    that    stood    all    sunlight- 
crowned 

In  Love's  domain.     Yet  while  so  near  the  blue 
That  Heaven  seemed  half-revealed,  sudden  flashed 

through 

Lightning,  that  on  the  sky's  great  bosom  wound 
Its  chain  of  awful  splendor  round  and  round, 
And  the  deep  thunder  brake  and  darkness  grew  ; 
And  now  the  cold  rains  fall  and  wild  seas  beat, 
Perplexed  to  madness  on  the  haggard  shore  ; 
And  for  Joy's  infinite  these  hot  tears  pour. 
Yet,  how  know  I  that  it  would  not  defeat 
Love's  high  decree  if  otherwise  ?     Nay,  sweet  ! 
Love  were  not  love  if  I  should  weep  no  more. 


SONNETS  15 


II. 

Somewhere,    when    I    have   traversed    sphere    on 

sphere, 

And  seen  each  planet-sky  through  thinner  air 
A  more  celestial  depth  of  color  wear, 
As  lit  by  larger  suns  they  must  appear, 
I  shall  look  up,  nor  need  mine  eyes  to  screen, 
And  watch,  undazzled  by  the  light  afar, 
Your  face  above  me  shining  like  a  star, 
And  see  that  only  music  lies  between. 
Then  I  shall  be  content,  for  I  shall  know 
No  barriers  in  higher  worlds  can  make 
Our  outward  ways  diverge  ;  but  I  shall  wake 
To  see  the  love  there  I  have  missed  below  ;  — 
And  since  through  music    reached,    for    music's 

sake, 
Whose  first  and  last  is  Heaven,  you  will  not  let 

me  go. 


16  SONNETS. 


I  cannot  go  to  meet  the  fresh  young  Spring 
With  the  same  throbbing  pulses  as  of  yore, 
For  then  I  knew  no  grieving,  and  could  sing, 
Undreaming  of  lament.     The  lilies  wore 
No  shadows  on  their  whiteness,  and  I  drew 
Divinest  harmonies  from  silence  ;  yet, 
Through  notes  that  were  most  exquisite,  I  grew 
To  consciousness  of  sorrow  ;  now  I  wet 
The  grasses  with  my  tears,  feeling  a  sting 
In  the  calm  days  (not  like  youth's  blissful  pain), 
But  a  strong  turbulence  that  seems  to  bring 
Life's  sweetness  and  despairs  all  back  again. 
I  turn  away  —  yet  still  I  can  but  see 
The  Spring,  soft-gliding,  bringing  flowers  to  me. 


SONNETS.  17 


DESIRE. 

If  I  could  breathe,  unshadowed  by  lament, 
A  tender  song  whose  purest  notes  should  blend 
With  the  impassioned  music  of  a  friend, 
I  should  be  filled  with  infinite  content. 
Weeping,  I  still  have  known  how  affluent 
Was  life  ;  and  that  love-laden  hearts  could  bend 
Almost  to  breaking,  and  Love's  weight  defend  : 
And  yet  to-day  divinest  joy  has  lent 
A  mist  of  exaltation,  as  to  hide 
The  hills  from  which  I  cannot  turn  away : 
Sorrow  forever  looms  that  once  holds  sway  ; 
But  if,  ere  this  sweet  healing  I  had  died, 
(Looking  on  naked  heights  of  suffering) 
How    could    I     half    have    guessed    what  Death 
would  bring  ? 


1 8  SONNETS. 

JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 

(June  8,  1888.) 
Not  like  the  cold-browed  Night   came   Death  to 

him 

Who   smiled   on    Death ;    but    Morning,    golden- 
tressed, 

Wearing  a  crystal  star  upon  its  breast  — 
With  lights  that  flashed  like  eyes  of  cherubim  — 
Came  through  the  tender  twilight,  soft  and  dim, 
And  like  an  Angel,  sent  in  angel-quest, 
Swept,  sun-winged,  through  some  planet  way  un- 

guessed, 

And  bore  him  out  beyond  the  horizon's  rim. 
What  then  ?     We  cannot  follow  where  he  went, 
Nor  howsoe'er  we  strain  our  longing  eyes 
See  even  one  ray  of  his  new  splendor  lent,  — 
For  immortals  come  not  back  from  Paradise. 
But  him,  who  all  his  soul's  strong  forces  spent 
Building  his  Heaven,  God's  Heaven  will  not  sur 
prise. 


SONNETS.  19 


TO  JOHN   G.  WHITTIER,  POET, 

ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY. 

Poet,  calm  standing  'neath  the  western  skies, 
Magnificent  upon  the  crest  of  song, 
In  the  full  sunlight  shining  clear  and  strong, 
The  whole  expanse  of  heaven  that  o'er  thee  lies 
Is  quick  with  light  of  unsung  melodies 
That  to  uncounted  birthdays  may  belong  :  • — 
Reverent,  I  bring  my  tribute  with  the  throng 
That  press  to  wish  thee  holy  joy  ;  mine  eyes 
Full  fixed  on  Life's  great  problems,  made  divine 
In  thy  sun-written  verse  :  —  nor  need  to  say, 
"  Poet,  sing  on,"    —  music's  immortal  wine 
Runs  in  thy  veins,  with  golden  rush  and  sway 
That  so  impels.     Eternal  youth  is  thine  — 
And  thou  wilt  sing  ;  —  sing  Time  itself  away. 


20  SONNETS. 


TO  A  POET  IN  GRIEF. 

What  time  you  smiled  before  the  shadow  came, 

Feeling  the  summer  in  your  pulses  leap, 

I  saw  your  soul's  ecstatic  pinions  sweep, 

With  mystic  knowledge  of  the  sun  aflame, 

Up  towards  its  vivid  heart  as  if  to  claim 

Joy's  fullest  measure  ;  —  now  that  you  must  weep, 

I  know  this  solemn  passion,  strange  and  deep, 

Will  bear  you  nearer  to  your  golden  aim. 

For  uttermost  of  Joy  is  less  than  Pain, 

And,  who  wears  crown  thereof,  is  lifted  so, 

To  kinship  with  the  Highest,  and  may  gain 

The  circling  splendor  'bove  the  brow  of  woe. 

Poet,  weep  on,  for  Song  cannot  attain 

The  perfect  cadence  but  with  tears  that  flow. 


SONNETS.  21 


GOLDEN  ROD  AND  ASTERS. 

Ere  yet  the  summer  has  gone  by,  behold 
The  golden  rod  is  here,  whose  armies  wear  — 
Slow  waving  in  the  languid  August  air  — 
Resplendent  plumes,  drooped  tremulous  with  gold. 
Now,  too,  the  asters  waken,  gay  and  bold, 
And  starting  from  their  starry  dreams,  prepare 
The  sunlit  glory  of  the  days  to  share, 
And  flauntingly  their  dazzling  hearts  unfold. 
Oh,  autumn  flowers  !  —  Rocked  on  the  silver  stream 
The  odorous,  pink-flushed  lilies  linger  yet, 
And  still,  wild-roses  in  the  distance  gleam  ;  — 
Why,  less  enchanting,  are  ye  near  them  set  ? 
Ye  come  too  soon  :  I  feel  reproach  supreme, 
So  short  the  summer,  and  so  long  regret. 


22  SONNETS. 


A  JUNE  DAY. 

Oh,  peerless,  perfect  day  !  With  violet  sky 
So  tender-sad,  and  wind,  soft  floating,  swept 
From  fresh-blown  roses  they  through   night  have 

kept 

Within  their  hearts  imprisoned,  —  I  do  sigh 
In  the  sweet  pain  of  too  full  ecstasy 
At  so  much  beauty.     Golden  shadows  play 
Through  leaves  all  tremulous,  and  the  hills  lie 
Enwrapped  in  their  own  mist  against  the  sky, 
As  heavenly  joys  that  men  from  men  do  veil, 
Lest  sacredness  be  lost.     Oh,  day  most  fair  ! 
Intense  with  tumult  that  doth  silence  wear, 
You  will  be  left  when  earthly  glories  pale, 
In  your  eternal  sweetness  set  apart, 
One  fresh,  white  rose,  on  the  dead  Summer's  heart. 


SONNETS.  23 


AT  NIGHT. 

In  the  pained  sweetness  of  divine  delight 
I  sit,  nor  heed  the  wasted  moon's  delay  ; 
Feeling  as  I  could  weep  my  heart  away 
Upon  the  tender,  throbbing  breast  of  night. 
It  is  not  often  that  I  feel  the  might 
Of  aught  that  moves,  save  passionate  despair :  — 
The  tears  from  overflow  of  bliss  are  rare  ; 
Yet  sometimes  Love  doth  lift  me  to  a  height 
From  which,  as  in  a  dream  of  Heaven,  I  see 
The  gulf  stream  of  my  sorrows  side  by  side 
With  a  great  rapture  that  has  reached  flood  tide. 
And  then  I  know  that  it  was  meant  for  me 
To  kiss  warm  lips  as  one  by  angels  led, 
And  love  the  living  dearer  for  my  dead. 


24  SONNETS. 


EASTER. 

Up  to  the  radiant  dawn  I  lift  mine  eyes 

Where  —  conscious    of    the    spring  —  a    burning 

glow 

Runs  through  the  east  and  in  the  horizon  low 
Gathers  intense  :  The  sun  full-rounded  lies 
On  heart  of  heaven,  and,  quick  with  mysteries 
Of  that  first  Easter,  shines  as  long  ago 
On  Christ's  ascent  —  with  the  same  flooding  flow 
As  when  His  nearing  glory  cleft  the  skies. 
Oh,  Vision  wonderful !     The  lilies  wake 
In  the  new  splendor  of  their  white  array, 
And  blossoms  to  the  same  fair  beauty  break 
As  when  Thou  wentest  Thine  illumined  way. 
There  is  no  death  since  death  Thou  didst  partake. 
Thou  liv'st !     Thou  reign'st !     It  is  Thine  Easter 

Day. 


SONNETS.  25 


IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Deep  musing  through  the  Abbey's  aisles  I  strayed, 
Awed  by  the  wide  magnificence,  to  where 
'Neath  marble  canopies,  in  carvings  fair, 
The  poets,  with  their  songless  hearts,  were  laid. 
Shakespeare,  and  Gray,  and  Milton  were  arrayed 
Before  me  —  and  on  Milton's  sculptured  hair 
Adown  the  arches  through  the  solemn  air 
A  strange  glow  fell,  as  if  the  sun  essayed 
From  light  of  centuries  a  crown  to  bring. 
Then,  like  bent  rainbows  swept  to  violet 
I  saw,  above  his  brow's  completeness  met, 
An  aureole  e'en  Handel's  self  might  sing  ; 
While,  towering  near,  the  statued  Muse's  king 
Saw  God's  own  sevenths  on  Milton's  forehead  set. 


26  SONNETS. 


THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN. 

Moon-hearted  lilies,  that  in  summer  beat 

Upon  the  river's  heaving  breast,  are  dead. 

But  scarlet  fires,  by  fierce  suns  earlier  sped, 

Through  the  nasturtium's  veins  run  hot  and  fleet  ; 

And  where  the  mountain's  purple  shadows  meet  — 

Incarnate  of  the  cloudless  heavens  o'erhead  — 

The  gentians,  overbrimmed  with  azure,  spread 

Their  star-edged  chalices  to  noontide's  heat ; 

For  suns  no  more  look  down  with  torrid  eyes ; 

The  passion  of  the  year  has  burned  away  : 

But  exquisite  within  this  wild  flower  lies 

The  whole  year's  affluence  ! —  Oh,  late  born,  say, 

Do  you  not  wear,  in  empyrean  dyes, 

The  soul  of  Spring,  despite  your  bloom's  delay  ? 


SONNETS.  27 


AT    CHRISTMASTIDE. 

If  Christ  should  come  to  me  in  a  child's  guise, 

As  to  the  world  so  long  ago  he  came, 

All  unafraid  I  should  look  up  and  claim 

The  heavenly  pity  of  his  rapt  young  eyes. 

But  should  a  vision  of  the  Master  rise  — 

His  brows  encircled  wide  with  rays  of  flame  — 

Although  his  lips  spake  nor  reproach  nor  blame, 

I  should  fall  down  with  agonizing  sighs, 

Nor  to  lift  up  my  face  again  should  dare. 

Oh,  soul  too  scant  of  faith  !     Do  I  not  know 

Who  walked  the  earth  with  human  woes  to  bear 

Knows  human  hearts  ?     And,  'chance,  if  I    should 

go 
And   touch   His  garment's   hem   His   eyes  would 

v/ear 
The    Christ-Child's    look  —  the   same  compassion 

show. 


28  SONNETS. 


FAREWELL. 

Farewell!     It  is  to  summer  that  I  speak, 

And  not  to  you  that  made  my  summer  dear ; 

You  cannot  go  from  me,  although  the  tear 

I  may  not  kiss  away  upon  your  cheek  : 

An  old,  dull  ache  comes  back  ;  yet  would  I  seek 

No  selfish  solace  that  your  heart  might  fear  : 

Only  in  passion  of  the  waning  year 

After  the  grapes  are  purpled,  days  are  bleak : 

I  am  so  used  to  parting  that  I  weep 

When  I  am  happy  e'en  ;  because  the  line 

Dividing  joy  from  sorrow  is  so  fine 

That  I  can  hardly  tell  which  way  to  keep ; 

Yet  Death  will  find  more  clear  my  soul's  red  wine 

Because  your  love  has  poured  itself  to  mine. 


SONNETS.  29 


Love  !  you  who  know  a  soul's  volcanic  blaze, 

Its  exaltation  and  profound  despair,  — 

Its  restless  currents  whirling  here  and  there,  — 

Its  summers,  changing  to  November  days,  — 

I  turn  to  you  —  as  golden  flower  obeys 

The  sun's  behest,  —  now  living  in  the  air 

Of  constant  June  ;  whose  wings  sweep  fair, 

Untouched  by  storm,  the  empyrean  ways. 

Nor  other  mood  is  yours,  than  calm  alone ; 

To  the   white   heights   of   Peace   your   soul     has 

pressed : 

Great  seas  upheaved,  great  tidal  waves  upthrown, 
Have  rocked  themselves  to  silence  in  your  breast ; 
And  from  its  deeps  of  pain  your  heart  has  grown 
So  infinitely  strong,  that  it  can  rest. 


30  SONNETS. 


TWO  MOODS. 

YESTERDAY. 

From  the  first  blush  of  sunrise,  till  the  day 
Sprang,  purple-winged,  to  the  full  moon's  embrace, 
I  stayed  not  singing :  I  was  glad  for  grace 
Of  the  impassioned  sunshine,  for  the  sway 
Of  silver  shadows  that  slow  drew  away 
And  in  the  midnight  glory  dropt  to  place. 
It  seemed  as  if  my  joy  could  fill  all  space, 
And  in  its  boundlessness  all  earth  outweigh. 
It  was  not  spring  —  and  yet  I  seemed  to  move 
Amid  the  flowers,  and,  rapt  and  strange,  to  hear 
The  birds'  high  transport,  as  my  own  to  prove. 
I  sang  and  sang,  for  shadowless  and  clear, 
I  saw,  like  a  near  heaven,  the  eyes  of  Love. 


SONNETS.  31 


TO-DAY. 

I  sing  no  more  with  rapture  ;  for  a  pall, 

Ashen  as  mists  of  late  November  days, 

Ghostly  as  a  wet  moon's  encircling  haze, 

Holds  me  resistless  in  its  sullen  thrall. 

With  listless  droop  my  soul's  numb  pinions  fall, 

Nor  can  I,  soaring,  traverse  music's  ways  ; 

The  fires  of  song  will  not  be  lured  to  blaze  : 

Mute  as  the  heavens,  I  know  despair  of  Saul  :  — 

What  touch  can  rouse  me  from  this  frozen  dream  ? 

Too  sad  for  tears,  e'en  tears  I  am  denied. 

I  feel  a  desolation  as  supreme 

And  chill  as  death.     I  hear  the  ebbing  tide 

Sweep  moaning  back,   and  Night's  black  arrows 

seem 
Plunged  to  my  heart,  in  blacker  night  to  hide. 


32  SONNETS. 


I. 

Across  the  sun,  in  threatening  darkness,  went 
A  great  cloud,  thunder-rim'd  ;  and  silent,  to 
Their  sheltering  nests,  the  birds  affrighted  flew, 
And  the  June  leaves  were  into  shivering  sent ; 
The  soft  young  grasses  in  the  meadows  bent, 
And  the  hushed,  heat-charged    air,    more    sultry 

grew, 

When,  suddenly  a  bolt  of  flame  shot  through 
The  insurgent  sky,  wherein  a  fire  seemed  pent ; 
And  down  its  darkened  bosom  crashed  a  sound, 
As  massed  artillery  had  broken  away  ; 
Then,  rush  of  mighty  waters  smote  the  ground  : 
For  clouds'  black  souls,  that  held  the  heavens  in 

sway, 

With  passion  of  the  lightning  all  unbound, 
Broke  forth  tumultuous,    nor   their   floods    could 

stay. 


SONNETS.  33 


II. 

Poor  rose,  that  but  two  yesterdays  ago 
Bloomed  by  the  way  so  young,  and  fresh,  and  fair, 
Something  of  your  old  fragrance  still  you  bear, 
With  kisses  of  the  wild  rain,  lying  low. 
The  grasses  have  been  lifted  up,  and  blow,  - 
Thick  starred  with  daises,  in  the  storm-cleared  air, 
And  the  June  leaves  forget  their  half  despair, 
And  rock'  the  yellow  sunshine  to  and  fro  ; 
The  skies  are  even  fairer  than  before  ; 
Yet  with  the  rain  your  crushed  leaves  still  are  wet. 
With  life  so  sweet,  can  death  mean,  all  is  o'er  ? 
Nay,  'chance  some  bird,  your  blush  remembering 

yet, 

Will  daily  come,  and  to  the  sunrise  pour 
A  song  so  glad,  men  will  unlearn  regret. 


34  SONNETS. 


TO  THE  DIVINE  DEAD. 

Sweet !  years  ago,   when,  'gainst  the  sky's  deep 

blue, 

The  far-off  hills  lay  phantomed  through  the  haze, 
I  stooped,  the  while  you  played  in  grassy  ways, 
And  one  great  golden  lily  plucked  for  you. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  very  song-birds  knew 
June's  wild-rose  heart  had  throbbed  itself  to  maze 
Of  riotous  bloom,  but  lovelier  to  my  gaze 
Than  all  the  sun-enraptured  flowers  that  grew 
Was  your  glad  face.     I  took  your  happy  hand, 
And,  smiling,  bade  you  stay  as  glad  fore'er, 
Nor    knew     what    magnitudes     my     words    had 

spanned  ; 

For  all  Junes  since  I  see  you  everywhere 
With  that  same  sweet,  rapt  smile  I  understand 
Must  crown  you,  'mong  immortals,  still  most  fair. 


SONNETS.  35 


A  PORTRAIT. 

He  has  the  look  of  one  of  whom  I  dare 
Not  speak  ;  with  deep,  far-searching  eyes, 
That  seem  unwonderingly  to  recognize 
Eternal  truths  ;  as  if  his  soul  had  share 
In  seraphs'  limitless  desire,  and  bare, 
Unshadowed  glory  of  infinities 
Had  set  its  seal  on  him  and  made  him  wise 
Beyond  his  years  ;  with  long,  soft,  waving  hair, 
(Like  floating  rays  of  summer  sunshine)  swept 
In  pure  abandonment  around  his  face, 
Divine  in  the  expression  ;  with  the  grace 
Of  beauty  heavenly  born,  that  will  be  kept, 
Like  that  of  Christ  in  Mary's  dream  of  bliss  ; 
The  child  from  angel  known  but  by  its  kiss. 


36  SONNETS 


HER  PORTRAIT. 

What  hand  can  paint  the  passionate  unrest 

Of  the  great  throbbing  sea,  or  ecstasy 

Of  a  new  dawn  ?    No  song  poured  from  the  breast 

Of  a  pained  nightingale  can  ever  be 

Portrayed  to  those  who  have  not  heard  ;  then  why 

(In  poet's  impotence)  should  I  aspire 

To  lift  pale  lids  that  brimming  tears  deny, 

Or  take  from  statue  mad  with  life's  desire 

The  veil  of  silence  ?     I  could  never  show 

A  great  soul's  lightning  flashes  of  delight  ; 

Or  thoughts  wild  beating  that  do  lie  too  low 

For  fathoming  :  so  I  leave  her  as  a  white, 

Pure,  sweet,  intangible  and  high  Ideal 

That  Love  will  some  time  make  divinely  Real. 


SONNETS.  37 


HER  FRIEND'S  PORTRAIT. 

She  stands  upon  th'  uplifted  heights,  o'erhung 
With  mists  that  hide  her  from  the  world  below ; 
And  near  the  sun,  but  with  her  feet  on  snow, 
She  leaves  her  sweetest  fantasies  unsung, 
Lest,  in  her  outpoured  passion,  she  betray 
The  music  running  riot  in  her  soul ; 
Yet  in  the  light  of  recognition,  whole 
Pure  tender  harmonies  are  breathed  away. 
Through  Love's  mute  pain  she  comprehends  de 
light- 
Though  measurement  of  bliss  is  hard  to  know : 
Yet  when  the  noonday  sun  shall  melt  the  snow, 
And  mists  dissolve  that  hide  her  from  our  sight, 
Some  subtle  instinct  tells,  we  shall  behold 
A  fair  white  lily  with  a  heart  of  gold. 


38  SONNETS. 


TO  THE  MORNING  STAR. 

CHRISTMAS,     1888. 

Oh,  Star  of  morning,  throbbing  in  the  blue 
Like  some  gold  message  from  the  other  side, 
That  ages  since  the  manger  glorified 
And  the  white  rapture  of  the  Virgin  knew, 
I  watched  you  shine  till  dusk  was  reddened  through 
With  blood  of  sunrise,  while  majestic-eyed 
You  lent  your  splendor  to  the  luminous  tide 
That  once  great  joy  foretold.  —  Looking  unto 
Your  silent  ecstasy,  behold,  I  wondered  not 
You  brake  to  singing  in  that  wondrous  time, 
Nor  that  exultant  symphonies  were  caught 
Back  into  Heaven  from  out  the  deeps  of  Time. 
I  veil  my  lifted  eyes,  struck  dumb  with  thought, 
Your  light  once  shone  upon  the  Face  sublime. 


SONNETS.  39 


IN  MAY. 

I  watched  the  violet  darkness,  noiseless  sent 

To  a  vast  crystal  ;  for  like  silver  flame 

Breaking  the  blue  heavens  through,  the  glad  moon 

came 

And  o'er  the  slumbering  hills  majestic  bent. 
My  blood  ran  swift :  I  could  not  sleep,  for  scent 
Of  myriad  flowers.     The  moonlight  seemed  to  aim 
To  reach  the  half-oped  lilies,  as  to  claim 
The  whole  fine  rapture  in  their  white  souls  pent : 
Filled  with  a  sense  of  beauty  all  divine, 
Strange  fancies  floated  through  my  brain  :  —  I  lay 
Quaffing  the  spring,  like  some  celestial  wine, 
Dreaming  a  bird  that  sang  its  heart  away 
Had  throbbed  its  fire  of  ecstasy  to  mine, 
—  And  knew  myself  intoxicate  with  May. 


40  SONNETS. 


AN  AUGUST  NIGHT. 

The  Northern  lights  streamed  up  the  dusky  blue, 
Above  the  hills,  faint  outlined  peak  on  peak, 
Watched  by  the  kindred  stars,  that  seemed  to  seek 
A  new  communion,  as  the  gold  fire  grew. 
The  August  air,  cooled  by  the  falling  dew, 
Swept  o'er  the  drowsy  wild  flowers,  fair  and  meek, 
And  loitered,  hushing  them  —  as  if  in  freak 
Of  perfume-laden  joy  — to  rest  anew. 
And  still,  while  to  the  sky  my  face  was  turned, 
Throned  by  the  glory,  yet  distinct  in  light, 
The  stars,  like  deeps  of  violet,  swayed  and  burned, 
And  it  was  God  himself  that  filled  the  night ; 
The  hills,  the  stars,  the  heavens  to  which  I  yearned 
Were  but  the  revelations  of  His  might. 


SONNETS.  41 


EGYPT. 

Hushed  by  the  deep-voiced  hum  of  centuries, 

Cities  have  lain  unstirred  on  Egypt's  breast, 

Till  now,  its  ruined  temples  torn  from  rest 

In  fragmentary  splendors  meet  our  eyes : 

And  sculptured  brows,  whereon  the  sunlight  lies 

—  Colossal   borne  —  hewn    from    Earth's    deeps, 

attest 

The  dead's  divine  Ideals,  in  whose  quest 
They  searched  their  own  soul's  immortalities. 
Oh,  Egypt !  in  your  bosom's  crypt,  you  hold 
Not  lifeless  ashes  of  the  Past  alone, 
But  Art,  that  palpitates  with  fires  untold, 
Mysterious  dreams,  inscrutable  in  stone, 
And  dusk-hued  vases,  on  whose  sides  are  scroll'd 
Dim,  faded  characters,  dead  Kings  might  own. 


42  SONNETS. 


CHRISTMAS  MORNING. 

THE    ETERNAL    CHILD; 

The  whole  great  joy,  that  filled  the  world  of  old 
When  into  far-off  Bethlehem  Christ  was  born,  — 
Yea  !  even  mightier  for  the  centuries  gone,  — 
Lives  in  our  hearts  to-day.     The  stars  still  hold 
Their  watches,  glad  as  when  their  singing  roll'd 
Adown  the  burning  bosom  of  the  morn, 
Fired  with  the  knowledge  that,  no  more  forlorn, 
The  human  to  the  immortal  might  unfold. 
Oh,  Love  incarnate  !  'bove  thy  manger  low 
The  heavens,  replete  with  their  auroral  sign, 
Were  scintillant  with  Love,  —  with  Love  that  lo  ! 
Through  the  eternal  years  shall  streaming  shine  : 
—  Great  waves  of  ecstacy  our  souls  o'erflow 
Redeemer,  Saviour,  King,  yet  Child  divine. 


SONNETS.  43 


CLYTIE. 

'  Neath  the  late  summer's  most  enchanting  skies 
There  grew  a  sunflower  ;  tossed  in  crystal  air 
Of  early  dawns,  and  with  its  great  heart  bare 
To  noonday  carnivals  of  butterflies : 
From  the  sun's  bended  heart  had  come  the  dyes 
That  made  its  amber  rim  so  dazzling  fair. 
And  as  I  watched  it  in  the  silence  there 
I  wondered  if  I  might  not  see  arise,  — 
As  if  its  flower-soul  had  its  flower  outgrown,  — 
And  slow  untangle  from  its  golden  maze 
The  youthful  nymph  from  the  Apollo  flown. 
Nay !     While  I  waited,  in  its  petals'  blaze, 
Through  haze  of  centuries,  like  a  vision,  shone 
The  fair  sweet  Clytie  of  Olympian  days. 


44  SONNETS. 


JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 

Angel  !  o'er  whom  the  angels  tender  brood, 

And  down  celestial  shining  stretches  lead, 

I  wonder  if  you  felt  the  immortal  need 

—  In  passion  of  some  great  creative  mood  — 

To  sun  yourself,  and  be  all  understood 

In  God's  high  presence  ?  —  If  your  soul  was  freed, 

The  while  interpreting  Love's  luminous  creed, 

By  Love  itself,  through  gates  of  sapphire  wooed  ? 

Ah  !  I,  who  knew  you  not,  am  fain  to  weep 

The  hushing  of  your  noble  heart  —  and  yet 

Your  life's  sweet  story  ere  you  fell  asleep 

Divinest  ending  in  yon  Heaven  has  met  ; 

And  to  Archangel's  thoughts  you  now  can  sweep, 

And  wear  them,  starry,  for  your  coronet. 


SONNETS.  45 


AT  GRASMERE. 

I  stood  where  Wordsworth  slept.     The  time  had 

past 

For  nightingales  to  sing,  or  I  should  fain 
Have  listened  till  in  some  enchanting  strain 
They  seemed  to  pour  their  longings  vague   and 

vast; 

And  plaintive  rising,  while  my  heart  beat  fast, 
I  might  have  heard  above  their  silvery  pain 
The  echo  of  his  soul's  divine  refrain 
Who  sang  himself  beyond  the  stars  at  last. 
The  hills  his  Poet  eyes  were  wont  to  view 
Still  kept  majestic  guard  o'er  him,  and  sent 
In  lines  of  color,  where  the  heather  grew, 
Their  purple  messages  ;  —  nor  knew,  content, 
Uplifted  'bove  their  calm,  that  smiling,  through 
The  gates  of  amethyst  he  long  since  went. 


46  SONNETS. 


VENUS  DE  MILO. 

Yes,  Venus  !  —  There    she    stands,    the    world's 

delight ; 

Nor  will  she  smile,  however  I  implore. 
Her  features  shaped  with  noble  thoughts  she  bore 
Ere  passion  of  her  beauty  dropt  to  white 
Of  cold  perfection  from  its  splendid  height  ; 
And  I  in  pathos  of  her  look  would  pour 
Straight  to  her  veins  the  tides  that  rush  and  roar 
Through  my  own  heart,  as  her  imperial  right. 
But  Art  its  own  divine  behests  fulfils, 
And  mute  and  cold,  but  never  dead,  she  seems. 
Nay,  ofttimes  —  when,  as  hung  mid  daffodils, 
The  low  sun  crowns  her  with  its  dying  gleams  — 
Her  marble  presence  all  the  thin  air  thrills, 
And  "  Hush  !  "  I  whisper,  "  Hush  !  she  breathes, 

she  dreams." 


SONNETS.  47 


ST.  PAUL'S  CATHEDRAL. 

"  And  here  our  Duke  lies,"  so  one  stately  said, 
"  In  this  vast  crypt,  this  lofty-vaulted  tomb." 
And  the  dim-lit  Cathedral  seemed  to  loom, 
And  waves  of  silence,  circling,  to  outspread, 
As  tender  brooding  o'er  the  immortal  dead. 
I  turned,  impressed  by  massive  sweeps  of  room, 
Filled  with  o'erarching  magnitudes  of  gloom, 
And  spake  :  "  He  lies  on  most  majestic  bed." — 
Then  History's  footsteps  backward  I  retraced  :  — 
I  saw  a  warrior  that  to  victory  went ; 
I  saw  Old  England  with  her  proud  heart  rent, 
And  stone  by  stone  of  this  cathedral  placed, 
Until  in  its  vast  bosom  it  embraced 
Whom  Englai  d  mourned  —  and'  gave  this  monu 
ment. 


48  SONNETS. 


THE  POET  SCULPTOR. 

"  My  soul's  sweet  fever  that  runs  high  to  rhyme 

I  will  assuage  "  —the  poet  sculptor  said, 

"  Giving  hot  life  to  what  would  else  be  dead, 

Dreaming  in  calm  of  marble,  for  a  time. 

Strange  measures  haunt  me,  like  the  march  sublime 

Of  the  Immortals  as  they  onward  tread, 

By  God's  own  rushing  music  trumpeted ; 

Strange  glories  pulse  as  from  a  heavenly  chime. 

Bring  me  the  chisel :  in  this  mood  of  mine 

I  feel  a  power  within  me,  angel  strong, 

To  image  forth  a  shape  so  pure,  so  fine, 

Another  Poet  gazing  rapt  and  long 

Will  in  a  fire  of  ecstasy  divine 

The  marble  triumph  of  a  sculptured  song." 


SONNETS.  49 


A  VISION. 

I  dreamed  in  heaven's  blue  silences  there  grew 

A  vision  to  mine  eyes,  like  music  caught 

To  wings,  and  in  its  mystic  eyes  I  sought 

To  read  some  message  in  a  language  new, 

Some  prophecy  that  in  its  passage  through 

The  spheres'  immensities  it  might  have  brought 

Lifted  in  dreaming  on  a  wave  of  thought 

That  swept  to  tidal  height,  awhile  I  knew 

The  immortal  ether  —  for  a  little  space 

Into  a  soul's  unshadowed  knowledge  went. 

I  whispered :  "  Here  can  be  for  death  no  place," 

And  saw  God's  smile  flash  o'er  the  firmament, 

And  heard  a  voice,  down  sweeps  of  lilies  sent, 

Say,  "  See  the  archangel  in  each  vanished  face." 


50  SONNETS. 


TO  MARY. 

You  stooped  to  place  a  rose  upon  my  breast ; 
Your  cheek  was  near  ;  the  rose  was  in  eclipse  ; 
If  you  had  seen  my  eyes  you  would  have  guessed 
Why  silence  came  when  I  had  touched  your  lips. 
Nor  would  you  wonder  that  I  turned  away, 
The  deep,  sharp    pain  from  memory's    sword  to 

hide, 

Knowing,  however  fair  the  summer  day, 
That  day  and  night  are  ever  side  by  side  : 
It  was  not  youth  (that  has  been  left  behind) 
For  which  I  wept,  but  when  your  lips  I  pressed 
A  shadowy  feeling  only  half  defined 
Swept  waves  of  pity  surging  o'er  my  breast  — 
Sweet  smiling  lips  that  never  yet  have  said 
(Pale  with  despair)  one  farewell  to  the  dead. 


SONNETS.  51 


Mine  eyes  are  scanning,  as  with  search  begun, 
The  clouds,  the  sun,  the  sky's  pathetic  blue, 
The  moon,  the  stars,  the  far-off  planets  through, 
Looking,  with  grief  ineffable,  for  one 
I  cannot  find.     Nor  would  I  even  shun 
Night's  barest,  bleakest  spaces,  could  I  know 
His  face  was  veiled  therein  ;  but  I  should  go 
—  As  in  the  midnight  hid  a  golden  sun  — 
Straight  to  his  heart.     Oh,  love,  I  cry  in  vain  ! 
Nor  pain,  however  great,  the  spheres  can  sway. 
Silent  they  sweep  on  their  majestic  way  : 
The  sun  shines  out  as  with  a  proud  disdain  : 
The  heavens  are  dumb,  nor  can  I,  pleading,  gain 
The  secret  where  my  child's  feet  tireless  stray. 


SONGS. 


SONGS.  55 


HER  SHIPS. 

"  Oh,  ships  !  "  she  said  :  "  with  white  sails  drifting 

past, 

Like  stately  phantoms,  fading  from  my  view, 
On',  on  the  ocean,  measureless  and  vast, 
Hidden  and  lost  beyond  the  horizon  blue 
What  sweeps  of  unknown  shores    are    distant, 
luring  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  ships  !  "  she  said  :  "  I  cannot  see  your  way, 
Mine  eyes  with  mists  of  blinding  tears  are  wet  ; 
What  birds  may  haunt  your  masts,  what  wild  winds 

sway, 

My  heart  cries  out,  with  passionate  regret 
For  its  own  ships  gone    down  —  their    radiant 
shores  unmet." 

"Sail  slower,  "  she  said  :  "  Oh,  ships  !  still  slower 

sail ! 
Nor  reach  too  soon  the  mystic,  beckoning  line  ; 


56  SONGS. 

Beyond,  the  splendor  of  the  sky  may  pale  ; 

Still  let  the  sunlight  on  your  white  sails  shine, 
Flashing  a  hope  to  me,  in  messages  divine.  " 

"  No  more,"  she  said ;  "  I  see  the  ships  no  more  ; 

Only  are  left  the  marvellous  sea  and  sky  : 
Only  the  pathos  of  the  silent  shore : 

Only  my  soul's  illimitable  cry 

For  sweeps  divinely  fair,  where  love's  white  sails 
shall  lie." 


SONGS.  57 


IT  WAS  IN  SPRING. 

It  was  in  Spring,  when  all  the  tides  run  high, 
Your  footsteps,  keeping  time  with  Spring's,  came 

nigh; 

The  April  sun  hung  golden  in  the  west ; 
The  clouds  drank  color  from  its  glittering  breast ; 
The  fitful  south  winds,  warm  with  rain,  blew  by ; 
A  line  of  fire  burned  straight  adown  the  sky ; 
I  saw  a  dove  through  violet  flushes  fly, 
With  snowy  heaving  bosom,  to  her  nest : 
It  was  in  Spring. 

I  saw  afar  the  shining  river  lie, 
With  its  new  tides  too  swollen  to  deny 
A  rush  like  thousand  hearts.  You  know  the  rest,  — 
How  fast  the  leaves  unrolled ;  how,  silver  prest, 
The  willows  broke  to  starry  ecstasy : 
It  was  in  Spring. 


58  SONGS. 

You  know  the  rest.     How  the  May  blossoms   to 
Their   faint-traced   veins     the     morning's     warm 

blood  drew  ; 

How  the  sleep-giving  poppies,  all  aflame 
With  wine  of  their  own  perfumes,  sudden  grew 
Drunken  with  sleep,  heeding  nor  sun  nor  dew ; 
How  June,  that  plunged  itself  to  roses,  flew ; 
How,  note  by  note,  the  golden  music  came: 

You  know  the  rest. 

How,  hence  forevermore,  will  bloom  anew 
The  silver  willows,  smiling  back  to  you ; 
And  mighty  rush  of  your  own  heart  will  shame 
The  tumult  of  the  April  tides  that  came  ; 
How  Spring,  that  reached  to  Heaven,  may  run  all 

through  : 

You  know  the  rest. 


SONGS.  59 


I  SAID  TO  SUMMER. 

I  said  to  Summer  :  "  Sweet,  thou  art 

Like  an  illusive  butterfly, 
And  losest  to  the  flowers  thy  heart, 

While  radiantly 
Through  gold-lit  air,  thou  swift-winged  fliest, 

And  flower-kissed,  diest. 
"  Thou  diest  — and  if  I  could  but  part, 

With  spirit  wings,  the  gold-lit  air, 
And  reach,  oh  late-kissed  dead,  thy  heart  — 

Lost  mid  the  flowers  somewhere  — 
I  might,   all  passionately  twined, 
My  own  heart  find." 


60  SONGS. 


I  MIGHT  FORGET. 

I  might  forget,  if  but  the  earth  would  stay 
Ice  bound  ;  if  waters  would  not  break 

From  crystal  sources,  and  so  find  their  way 
The  thirst  of  the  young  budding  violets  to  slake, 
I  might  forget. 

I  might  forget,  if  skies  thin  veiled  in  mist 
Would  not  o'ertriumph  in  their  radiant  blue ; 

If  harebells,  erewhile  sleeping,  were  not  kissed, 
From  azure  dreams,  to  waken  as  they  do, 
I  might  forget. 

If  budding  cornels  in  the  forest  ways 

To  silver  stars  the  sunshine  would  not  shake, 

If  something  did  not  seem  to  haunt  the  days, 
As  if  their  very  splendor  sheathed  an  ache, 
I  might  forget. 


SONGS.  61 

If  birds  would  not  outpour  the  songs  that  burn 
Their  breasts  with  ecstasy,  each  opal  dawn, 

When  to  the  affluent  beauty  I  should  turn 
Amid  the  noisless  bloom,  a  presence  gone 
I  might  forget. 

And  yet  —  I  would  not  stay  the  flooding  blush 
That  makes  magnolias'  opening  hearts  divine  ; 

But  with  hot  tears,  that  passionately  rush, 

I  drink  to  Heaven  my  sorrow's  unspilled  wine, 
Nor  can  forget. 


62  SONGS. 


MINER  JIM. 

AFTER    AN    EXPLOSION. 

So,  comrades,  this  is  death  !  Well,  death's  a  friend. 
You  only  whispered,  but  I  heard,  "Jim's  done." 
Life's  been  most  dreadful  tangled  ;  here's  an  end, 

And  I'm  a  lucky  one, 

To  catch  the  thread  without  a  longer  fight. 
I'm  not  afraid.     The  parson  used  to  say, 
"  God  only  judged  us  'cording  to  our  light  "  ; 
I'll  take  my  chance  —  perhaps  He'll  lead  the  way 
And  let  the  angels  pass  the  time  o'  day. 
Curious  .  .  I've  been  so  puzzled.     When  I  fell 
I  did  not  feel  a  single  bit  of  fear, 
Though  the  dark  mine  became  a  glittering  cell 

And  heaven  looked  very  near. 
Ah  !  dying  is  not  much.     I  always  knew 
Since  I  was  but  a  working  lad,  so  high, 
That  living  was  the  hardest  of  the  two. 


SONGS.  63 

But  still  —  I'm  feard  the  little  chaps  will  cry  ; 
They'll  miss  me  when  they  watch  you  going  by ; 
You  see,  the  little  chaps  was  mighty  nice. 
They  loved  me  so  ;  that  kept  my  thinking  white  — 
And  miners'  grim  is  wholesomer  than  vice  — 

I've  tried  to  teach  them  right. 
Who'll  see  to  them  ?     Their  mother's  dead,  you 

know ; 

I  used  to  think  God  had  a  grudge  'gainst  me  ; 
But  now  —  the  thread  has  got  untangled  so, 
I  guess  He  knows.     The  little  chaps  will  be 
His  care.     But  still  I'm  feard  they'll  cry  for  me. 

So,    breath  comes    shorter !     Comrades,    lift    me 

higher. 

I'm  glad  the  parson  taught  me  how  to  read  ; 
And    once    he    said,    "  God's    peace    shall  crown 

desire." 

I  did  not  take  much  heed  ; 
But  now  it  seems  all  written  out  in  light  — 
Suffer?  Oh,  no  !  the  parson's  words  were  wise. 


64  SONGS. 

Something  —  what  is  it  ?  —  seems  to    blind    my 

sight ; 

I  thought,  a  moment,  that  it  was  God's  eyes. 
Don't  touch  me.     Hush  !  I  rise  —  and  rise  —  and 

rise. 


SO.VGS.  65 


RADIANT  BIRDS  ARE  SINGING. 

i. 
Radiant  birds  are  singing,  singing 

While  the  dewy  May  departs  ; 
Summer,  swallow-winged,  is  springing 

To  the  daisies'  golden  hearts  ; 
Comes  the  summer  e'er  so  fleet, 
I  shall  still  wait  summer,  sweet ! 

ir. 
Silver  waves  are  leaping,  leaping 

On  the  ocean's  dazzling  breast, 
And  the  perfumed  winds  are  sweeping 

From  the  mountain's  sunlit  crest ; 
Silver  waves  may  singing  beat, 
I  shall  hear  but  sighing,  sweet ! 

in. 

When  I  see  the  passion,  passion 
Of  the  roses  break  to  flame, 


66  SONGS. 

I  shall  weeping,  weeping  fashion 

What  the  spring  held,  when  it  came. 
I  shall  hear  no  rush  of  feet  — 
Silence  will  engulf  me,  sweet  ! 

IV. 

Hush,  oh  radiant  birds,  your  singing, 
Mist  clad,  let  the  spring  go  by  ; 

Swifter  than  a  swallow  springing 
Springs  my  summer  to  the  sky  ; 

Azure  heavens  mine  eyes  may  meet, 

But  thou  shinest  higher,  sweet  ! 


SONGS.  6? 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

If  I  could  only  lay  me  down  to  rest, 
Crossing  my  weary  hands  upon  my  breast, 
And  shut  my  troubled  eyes  without  a  fear, 
Knowing  that  they  would  never  open  here  — 
How  blissful  it  must  be,  both  worlds  in  sight, 
To  say  my  tired  "Good  night." 

If  only,  from  the  fretting  cares  of  Time, 
To  truths  eternal  I  at  once  might  climb, 
Nor  longer  count  the  graves  whereon  I  tread, 
But  in  one  moment  be  all  comforted  — 
If  such  could  be,  what  joy,  in  upward  flight, 
To  sing  my  tired  "  Good  night." 

I  watch  the  sweetest  flowers  throughout  the  morn, 
I  look,  and  lo  !  at  noontide  they  are  gone  ; 
The  wings  of  sorrow  are  forever  spread  ; 
I  weep,  but  weeping  brings  not  back  my  dead. 


63  SONGS. 

If  God  would  but  reveal  the  breaking  light, 

How  sweet  to  say  "Good  night." 

This  flooding  tide  of  yearnings  will  not  cease  ; 
I  cannot  reach  to  touch  the  lips  of  Peace  ; 
Nor  can  I  gather  to  my  sobbing  heart 
The  white-winged  angels  God  has  set  apart, 
Yet  haply  I  may  find  them  all  in  sight 

After  some  tired  "Good  night." 

What  wonder,  then,  that  I  should  long  to  rest, 
Crossing  my  weary  hands  upon  my  breast  ; 
To  shut  my  troubled  eyes  without  a  fear, 
Knowing  that  they  would  never  open  here  ; 
To  say  to  Earth,  with  Heaven  alone  in  sight, 
My  rapturous  "  Good  night." 


SONGS.  69 


IF. 

i. 

If  you  should  go  away  from  me,  and  take 

The  splendor  of  your  eyes  to  some  far  place  ; 
If  thoughts,  that  from  your  lips  inspired  break, 

Were  heard  no  more  on  earth,  but  piercing  space, 
And,  swept  like  organ-music  through  the  skies, 

Should  reach,  in  upward  way,  diviner  ears  ; 
If,  while  I  wept,  angels  should  recognize 

The  angel  I  was  grieving,  would  my  tears, 
Dropt  on  your  silent  face,  my  heart's  love  show  ? 
Sweet !  would  you  know  ? 

n. 

If  I  should  watch  the  summer  flowers  return, 
And  know  your  pulseless  hands  could  never 

hold; 

If  cloudless  sapphire  arches  seemed  to  yearn 
Downward  to  earth,  as  with  some  news  untold ; 


;o  SONGS. 

If,  when  the  moons  were  lit,  you  could  not  see 
Their  rays,  like  strings  of  some  ethereal  lyre  ; 

If,  lonely  'neath  the  stars,  my  soul  should  be 
Blazing  with  hot  despair's  consuming  fire,  — 

Would  this  undying  pain  my  heart's  love  show  ? 
Sweet !  would  you  know  ? 

ill. 

Ah  !  let  me  say  what  you  have  been  to  me 

These  golden  years  !     Nor  can  I  dream  a  woe 
More  bitter  than  were  mine,  if  you  should  be 

Lifted  to  glories  you  have  pictured  so. 
But  sometimes  comes  a  far-off  look,  that  seems 

As  if  your  finer  vision  caught  a  light 
Denied  to  me,  and  strange  ecstatic  themes 

Fill  your  exalted  song,  betokening  flight  :  — 
Could  I  to  Heaven's  high  guest  my  heart's  love 
show, 

Sweet  !  would  you  know  ? 


SONGS.  71 


UNCONQUERED. 

With  tearless  eyes,  I  turned  my  face  away ; 

And,  "  Art  them  conquered  ?  "  to  ray  soul  I  said. 
Up  in  the  heavens,  the  full  moon  seemed  to  sway, 
As  if  to  wrap  its  splendor  round  my  dead  : 
I  saw,  like  a  great  amethyst,  afar 
One  burning  star. 

No  quivering  motion  to  the  pale  lips  came ; 

Nor  moonlight  glare  the  close-shut  lids  could  part, 
Nor  thousand,  nor  ten  thousand  swords  of  flame 
Could  bring  one  protest  from  my  ashen  heart : 
And  still,  like  a  great  amethyst,  afar 

Burned  that  one  star. 
The  scent  of  flowers  came,  agonizing  sweet  ; 

The  sea,  with  summer  pulsing,  went  its  way, 
Then  backward  on  the   shore  soft  rocked  and  beat, 
While  in  the  moonlit  calm  my  sleeper  lay  : 
And  still,  like  a  great  amethyst,  afar 
Burned  that  one  star. 


72  SONGS. 

And,  "  Art  thou  conquered,  O  my  soul  ?  "  I  said  ; 
"  For  still  thou  lovest !  "  Scent  of  flowers  swept 

by; 

And  ocean,  silver  singing,  hushed  my  dead  ; 
And  still  the  moon  swayed  golden  in  the  sky  : 
And  still,  like  a  great  amethyst,  afar 
Burned  that  one  star. 

"  Nay,  soul,  thou  lovest,  nor  art  conquered  yet  ; 
For  still  thou  lovest !  "     Looking  up,  I  knew 
Where  God's  feet  led,  — as  if  his  pity  let 
A  shimmer  of  his  radiant  Presence  through  : 
And  still,  like  a  great  amethyst,  afar 
Burned  that  one  star. 


SONGS.  73 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 

Mine  eyes  are  dazzled  as  I  turn  to  scan 
The  marvels  of  this  Century.     Some  mighty  plan 
Shapes  the  world's  movements,  as  some  law  divine 
Shapes  harmonies.     The  Past  is  never  dumb  : 
Behold,  some  present  is  its  golden  sign, 
Its  golden  sun  ; 

And  Beauty's  sacred  flower 
Blooms  through  the  ages  with  immortal  power. 

Yea,  though  so  long  since  slain, 
Set  radiant  in  our  midst,  to-day,  Greece  lives  again. 

What  miracles  have  not  been  wrought  ? 

Stars,  men  foretold,  have   to    the    heavens    been 

caught 

And  shine  in  place  :  With  fires  of  lightning,  lo, 
Unwondering,  flashed  from  place  to  place,  we  go  : 
We  speak  to  friends  afar,  and  hear 
Their  voices,  as  by  magic,  answering  clear  : 


74  SONGS. 

Our  souls  adoring  bow  :  One  King  we  own, 
One  King  we  crown  and  throne, 
Divine  as  from  the  Immortals  brought, 
Imperial,  mighty  ruler  of  this  Century —  Thought. 

And  poets  have  arisen, 

With  deathless  passion  nothing  could  imprison, 
And  sung  their  noble  lyrics  to  the  sun, 
As  if,  perchance,  their  ecstasy  were  won 
From  nightingales.     Sculptors  have  wrought 
Their  burning  visions  into  marble  till  they  brought 
Its  chill  almost  to  warmth.     Men  have    dreamed 

dreams  that  Time, 

Lifting  to  action,  swept  to  deeds  sublime. 
The  fettered  have  been  freed  : 
Outgrown  and  left  behind,  each  narrow  creed  : 
And  Woman,  higher  than  those  ancient  Greeks, 
With  heart  and  soul  and  brain  that  outlet  seeks 
In  Science,  Poetry,  Philosophy  and  Art, 

Makes  noble  part 

Of  this  majestic  era,  and  has  written  her  name 
Upon  this  splendid  Century's  heart  in  fires  of  silver 
flame. 


SONGS.  75 


TO  JULIA  WARD  HOWE 

ON  HER    BIRTHDAY,    MAY  2/. 

Bring  the  daffodils,  gold-petaled,  with  the  sunshine 

>        hid  between, 

Bring  the  lilies,  moonlight-raptured,  in  the  splen 
dor  of  their  sheen, 

Bring  the  Spring's  divine  incarnate  for  this  poet, 
who  has  seen 

"The  glory  of  the  Lord." 

Let  the  heart  of  May  beat  quicker,  that  her  birth 
day  in  it  lies  ; 

Let  the  violets  spring  bluer,  that  their  bloom  first 
met  her  eyes ; 

Let  the  sun  shine  out  more  radiant,  that  its  light 
could  not  disguise 

"  The  glory  of  the  Lord." 


76  SONGS. 

In  a  strain  of  high  rejoicing,  filling  tribute  to  the 

day, 
Let  the  birds  sing  out  triumphant,  as  if  sunrise  lit 

the  way  ; 
She  has  seen  beyond  the  sunrise,  what  our  eyes  in 

vain  essay, 

"  The  glory  of  the  Lord." 

In  the  passion  of  her  lyric,  Truth  outbroke  to  silver 

flame  ; 
And  its  echoes,  rolling  downward,  to  the  world  will 

bear  her  name. 
Youth  will  be  her  own  forever,  who  has  kissed  the 

lips  of  Fame, 

Seen  "  the  glory  of  the  Lord." 

In  that  hour  of  revelation,  God  himself  the  poet 

crowned  ; 
She  has  seen  the  chariots  coming,  she  has  heard  the 

chariots'  sound  ; 
Let  her  soul's  prophetic  vision  wrap  her  evermore 

around 

With  "  the  glory  of  the  Lord." 


SONGS.  77 


A  REVERIE. 

Draw  the  curtains  closely  in  the  silent  room, 
Let  the  moon's  bare  splendor  other  ways  illume, 
Let  the  stars,  ungazed  on,  slay  the  azure  gloom. 

In  the  wavering  darkness  leave  my  soul  and  me, 
And  with  mystic  searching,  eyes  in  eyes  may  see 
The  empurpled  stretches  of  Love's  heaving  sea. 

From  the  earth  mists  lifted,  flashing  dream  on 
dream, 

Through  my  senses  rushing,  grows  to  light  su 
preme, 

Till,  in  red  auroras,  inspirations  stream. 

From  the  cold  dead  levels  to  the  mountain's  peak, 
That  the  yellow  sunbeams  spilled  from  daybreaks 

seek, 
In  a  mood  exalted  I  can  hear  God  speak. 


78  SONGS. 

From  the  tragic  bases,  where  the  angels  lie 
Carven  on  the  marbles,  pointing  to  the  sky, 
Toward  the  heaven  they  signal,  float  my  soul  and  I. 

With  unfettered  pinions  I  would  fain  essay  — 
Tracking  radiant  plumage,  finding  thus  the  way  — 
In  the  dazzling  spaces,  evermore  to  stay. 

Draw  the  curtains  closely,  and  let  me,  tired,  rest. 
I  have  sacred  knowledge  hidden  in  my  breast. 
Have  I  seen  archangels  ?     Let  my  soul  attest. 


SONGS.  79 

SOMEWHERE. 

Somewhere   the  summer  bloom    has    joined    the 

sadder  spring  : 

Somewhere  my  aching  heart  has  lost  the  power  to 
sing. 

The  days  go  by  ; 
The  grieving  sunsets  die  ; 
And  yet  I  make  no  outward  moan  or  cry ; 
I  only  say, 

Somewhere  :  — 
Then  turn  away. 

Somewhere  seems  so  afar  I  cannot  give  it  place  ; 
My  dove,  in  sudden  flight,  seems  lost  in  darkened 
space  ; 

The  leaves  fall  fast, 
I  hear  the  autumn  blast  ; 
It  was  not  sobbing  when  I  heard  it  last ; 
Yet  still  I  say, 

Somewhere  :  — 
Then  turn  away. 


8o  SONGS. 

With  vain  protest  I  seek  this  mystery  to  find ; 
I  cannot  search  the  skies  nor  fathom  worlds  be 
hind  : 

Nothing  replies  ; 
Nature  is  silent-wise ; 

The  lingering  beauty  and  the  verdure  dies  ; 
Yet  still  I  say, 

Somewhere :  — 
Then  turn  away. 


Somewhere  ;  only  a  breath,  and  autumn,  too,  will 

go; 

All  seasons  are  the  same,  yet  through  the  drifting 
snow, 

1  may  not  see 

The  green  earth  mocking  me, 
I  shall  be  left  with  grief  and  memory  ; 
Yet  still  may  say, 

Somewhere :  — 
Then  turn  away. 


SONGS.  8 1 

If,  when  with  tears  no  more,  I  count  the  seasons 

o'er 

(Knowing  not  which  of  all  the  saddest    message 
bore) 

If  then  love's  chain 
I  may  take  up  again 

Without  its  breaks,  I  have  not  wept  in  vain ; 
The  great  unknown, 

Somewhere, 
Will  be  my  own. 


82  SONGS. 


A  SUMMER  DAY. 

i. 

O  birds  that  singing  soar  to  heaven  away  ! 

Tell  me  to-day, 

What  soft  enchantment  fills  the  summer  air 
Drifting  the  marvellous  sunshine  everywhere  ? 

And  why 

The  river  rippling  at  my  feet  doth  sigh, 
While  on  its  breast  the  rapturous  lilies  lie  ? 
Tell  me,  —  for  ofttimes  in  a  day  like  this, 
Pierced  with  a  pain  that  is  but  affluent  bliss, 

I  also  sigh, 
And  dreaming,  dream  till  the  sweet  day  goes  by. 

ii. 

Tell  me,  O  sky  that  seemest  so  remote, 
On  which  no  light  clouds  float, 
If  what  doth  seem  divineness  of  your  hue, 
Is  mist  of  heavenly  azure  melting  through  ? 


SONGS.  83 

Oh  say, 

If.  whispering  leaves  that  in  the  sunlight  play 
Quiver  with  golden  mystery  of  the  day  ? 
Tell  me,  —  for  ofttimes  in  a  day  like  this, 
Pierced  with  a  pain  that  is  but  affluent  bliss, 

I,  quivering,  sigh, 
And  dreaming,  dream  till  the  sweet  day  goes  by. 

III. 

Tell  me,  O  earth  !  for  ah  !  I  fain  would  know, 

What  thrills  me  so. 

The  singing  of  the  birds  grows  faint  and  far ; 
Sing  they  more  softly  where  the  angels  are  ? 

Make  sign, 

Ye  steadfast  hills  that  in  the  distance  shine  ; 
Only  to  live  to-day  seems  so  divine 
That  I  could  half  forget  my  saddest  years  ; 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  my  soul  is  steeped  in  tears  ; 

I  can  but  sigh, 
And  dreaming,  dream  till  the  sweet  day  goes  by. 


84  SONGS. 


TO   

When  I  am  laid  away,  too  sound  asleep 

To  feel  the  sunshine  falling  on  my  face, 
Or  hear  the  birds  that  near  the  windows  sweep, 

Singing,  as  if  to  win  me  from  my  place,  — 
Unstirring  even,  although  the  sky  should  grow 

Into  its  azure  most  intense  and  deep, 
But  rapt  as  with  the  things  I  seem  to  know, 

Yet  cannot  wake  to  tell,  so  sound  asleep,  — 
Because  you  love  me,  sweetheart,  you  will  weep. 

If,  stooping  then,  you  tender  smooth  my  hair, 

And  touch  my  forehead  softly,  as  of  old, 
I  think  my  lips  unconsciously  will  wear 

A  loftier  smile,  although  so  marble  cold. 
It  will  seem  strange  to  you  no  more  to  feel 

The  beating  of  my  heart,  so  strong  and  deep, 
But  the  new  silence  will,  perchance,  reveal 

Completion  of  my  soul's  new  song,  whose  sweep 
May  reach  as  high  as  Heaven, —  but  you  will  weep. 


SONGS.  85 

And  I  —  I  should  be  grieved,  although  afar, 
If  on  my  face  no  tender  tears  should  fall, 

If  in  your  "  heart  of  heart  "  you  wore  no  scar 
That  I  should  know  as  love,  where  "  love  is  all." 

Perhaps  the  thought  is  childish  —  let  it  go  — 
But  still  it  seems  the  angels  could  not  keep 

My  soul  content  if  those  I  loved  below 
Could  be  unmoved  the  while  I  lay  asleep, 
And  so,  because  you  love  me,  you  will  weep. 


86  SONGS. 


SHERMAN'S  LAST  MARCH. 

FEBRUARY    14,     1 89 1. 

"  Halt !  "  breathed  a  muffled  voice. 

"  Ensheath  thy  sword,  lay  down  thine  arms  :  — 

No  more  the  battle's  bugles  or  alarms 

Shall  rouse  thy  lion  heart.     Rejoice  !  " 

Yet,  spite  Death's  mandate  low, 

Despite  a  nation's  woe, 

Sherman  marched  on  — 

Marched  on  triumphantly, 

As  when  he  led  his  armies  to  the  sea  — 

Marched  on  ! 

O  Death !  thou  could'st  not  stay 
A  hero,  dauntless  set  upon  his  way 
To  a  new  planet,  toward  eternal  peace  ; 
Thou  could'st  not  touch  him,  save  with  pain's  sur 
cease  ; 

For  while  thou  spakest,  even, 
Sherman  marched  on  —  to  Heaven. 


SONGS.  87 

Where,  then,  thy  sting,  O  Death  ?  since  he 
Has  heard  God's  roll  call ;  where  thy  victory, 
O  grave  ?  since  he  has  made  reply  : 

Can  Sherman  die  ? 
Nay  ;  glory-girded,  one  more  battle  won, 

He  has  marched  on. 

Choke  back  your  sobs,  O  men  ! 
He  has  outstripped  the  sun  —  what  then  ? 
The  spring  that  cometh  soon,  will  let 
Her  gently  falling  tear-drops  wet 
His  new  made  grave. 

Nature  will  weep,  but  men  —  men  do  not  weep  the 

brave. 

Lay  his  sheathed  sword  upon  his  breast 
After  life's  burning  warfare  ;  peace  is  best. 
Let  dust  to  dust  return,  nothing  can  shroud 
The  soul  of  Sherman.     Be  not  overbowed 
With  grief,  rather  let  joy  exalt ; 

For  even  Death's  grim  "  Halt !  " 


88  SONGS. 

His  progress  could  not  stay  ; 
He  saw  the  coming  day 

And  'neath  the  sunrise  marched,  as  toward  the  sea, 
Marched  —  marched  —  to  immortality. 


SONGS.  89 


A  SEASIDE  SKETCH. 

If  I  could  only  paint  a  picture,  fair 
As  that  on  which  I  look,  color  the  air 
With  golden  light,  and  o'er  it  fling  the  haze 
That  gives  the  splendor  of  September  days 
Such  tender  pathos  ;  whose  blue  sky  should  make, 
Touching  the  blue  sea,  no  outlined  break,  — 
Then  I  should  say,   "  Desire  is  answered  for  thy 
sake." 

And  I  would  show,  with  artist's  lavish  hand,  — 
Processions  of  the  golden  rod  that  stand 
Guarding  the  pathways,  moving  to  and  fro 
To  silvery  measures  that  the  breezes  blow ; 
And  asters,  purpling  on  the  heart  of  day 
With  memories  of  the  clouds,  that  lingering  lay 
Upon  the  twilight's  breast,  from    sunsets    swept 

away  ; 
And  scarlet  pimpernels  that  dot  the  shore  ; 


90  SONGS. 

And  birds,  low  darting ;  and  the  tides  that  pour 
The  fullness  of  their  passion  and  lament 
On  the  sea's  heart,  with  beating  never  spent : 
The  pallor  of  the  sand  —  the  shifting  light  — 
The  tired  glory  creeping  out  of  sight  — 
And  the  swift  swooping  wings  of  the  dim  hovering 
night. 

Ah !  who  can  wonder  that  I  fain  would  weep, 
Since  fairest  things  we  may  not  always  keep  ? 
If,  from  the  year's  bloom,  drifting  to  decay, 
I  could  cut  out  the  splendor  of  a  day, 
It  were  so  much  —  and  yet,  so  much  to  leave. 
Earth's  impotence  is  mighty  :  and  the  eve, 
Grieving  the  moon's  delay,  doth  hide  me  while  I 
grieve. 


SONGS.  91 


MY  LADYE'S  EYES. 
Fairer  than  the  morning's  blush, 

Lovelier  than  the  noontide  airs, 
Sweeter  than  the  springtime's  hush, 

Is  the  smile  my  ladye  wears  ; 
As  if  the  enchanting  light 

From  some  June-bent  crescent's  grace 
Dropt  a  glory,  soft  and  white, 

On  my  ladye's  face, 

My  ladye's  face. 
When  my  ladye's  face  I  met, 

Wherefore  should  my  heart  recall 
Bloom  of  early  violet  ? 

It  held  Springtime — that  was  all. 
When  her  soft  eyes  looked  in  mine, 
Touched  to  tears,  I  turned  away, 
For  in  hers  there  shone  divine, 

All  the  hope  of  May, 

The  hope  of  May. 


92  SONGS. 

Let  my  ladye  smile,  and  bear 

In  her  soul  the  springtime  set, 
Breathing  music  unaware, 

Fine  as  nightingale's  regret ; 
For  a  glory  unconfmed, 

Fairer  than  in  crescent  lies, 
From  the  whole  high  heaven  behind 

Lights  my  ladye's  eyes, 
My  ladye's  eyes. 


SONGS.  93 


I  PRAYED  THE  ETERNAL  HEART. 

I  prayed  the  Eternal  Heart,  one  marvellous  night 
When  the  stars  waked  with  me  and   sent  their 

fire 

Down  through  the  violet  glooms  until  their  light 
Pulsed  strong  within  me  and  a  strange  desire 
To  know  their  awful  ecstasy  was  mine,  — 

Give  me  one  Song  divine. 

Silent  and  swift  a  mighty  passion  grew  ; 

And  thundering  waters  heaving  brake  apart, 
And  the  cramped  prison  walls  of  thought    burst 

through 

And  fell  to  cataracts  in  my  stormy  heart. 
I  felt  my  blood  in  torrents  poured  along, 

Scarlet  and  hot  with  Song. 

Quick  throbbed  the  scintillating  summer  heats 
Upon  the  sky's  great  brow,  whereon  still  lay 
The  illumined  stars  ;  and,  as  if  soul  of  Keats 


94  SONGS. 

Beckoned  from  each,  my  song  lit  up  the  way. 
The  whole  gold  score  amid  the  planets  shone,  — 
God-written,  yet  my  own. 

Magnificent,  above  my  pulses'  roar, 

I  heard  the  silence  rushed  to  music's  height, 

And  felt  my  spirit  all  untrammeled  soar, 
Caught  to  the  blazing  melody  in  sight : 

I  prayed  the  Eternal  Heart  one  Song  divine, 

And  the  stars'  Song  —  was  mine. 


SONGS.  95 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 

Nay,  Death !     here's     your    master,  —  from    his 

crowded  heart  and  brain 
There  was  nothing  you  could  capture,  nothing  but 

his  pain  ! 
All   his  human   searches   have    been    merged    in 

truths  sublime, 
And  his  thoughts,  immortal  winging,  broken  bounds 

of  time. 
Here's  your  master  ;  here's  our  leader  — leader  set 

new  heights  to  climb. 

"  Nobler  than  a  warrior's  glory  he  has  won,"    we 

say. 
He  has  led  the  world's  great  chorus  in   its   high 

array ; 

From  the  passion  and  the  discord,  from  the   jar 

and  fret, 


96  SONGS. 

With  his  king's  brow,  song-encircled,  chorus  new 

has   met. 
Here's  your  master ;  here's  our  leader,    with   his 

seven-rayed  coronet. 

What  to  him  are  now  earth's  grandeurs  ?  In  his 
new  estate, 

All  that  life  gave,  all  that  death  gave,  he  can  es 
timate 

At  a  saint's  true  value.  Like  a  heaven-flashed 
scimetar 

Sweeps  his  song,  swift-clad  in  glory,  through  the 
spaces  far. 

Here's  your  master  ;  here's  our  leader,  lifted 
kingly  to  a  star. 


SONGS.  97 


ASK  ME  NOT  WHY. 

Ask  me  not  why  I  turn  my  face  away, 
Nor  stay  to  listen,  e'en  to  sweetest  singing  ; 
Why,  to  my  saddened  heart,  the  sunniest  day 
Seems  only  as  if  darkened  shadows  bringing. 
Ask  me  not  why  — 
It  would  but  make  you  sigh. 

Ask  me  not  why  the  moonlight  pale  and  fair 
Seems  sadder  than  the  skies'  tumultuous  weeping  ; 
Why  stars  that  glisten  seem  to  mock  despair, 
As  set  to  watch  a  little  child's  sound  sleeping. 
Ask  me  not  why  — 
It  would  but  make  you  sigh. 

Ask  me  not  why  the  sweetest  summer  rose 
Brings  keener  anguish  than  the  dead  leaves'  sigh 
ing, 
As  pitiless  to  bloom  when  dear  eyes  close 


98  SONGS. 

And  Love   makes  protest    'gainst   Death's   calm 
denying. 

Ask  me  not  why  — 

It  would  but  make  you  sigh. 

Ask  me  not  why,  for  pain  is  consecrate ; 

It  would  not  lessen  grief  to  tell  my  grieving  : 

And  yet  earth's  pangs  may  pierce  to  peace  most 
great, 

And  love  denied  may  grow  to  love's  receiving : 
Nay  do  not  sigh  — 
God  shall  make  answer  why, 


SONGS.  99 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 

THE    DEAD    SINGER. 

Call  you  this  singer  dead  ?     This  singer,  who  — 
Bringing  an  angel's  birthright  here  below  — 
Sent  fires  of  living  music  streaming  through 
The  pulses  of  the  world?      You  do  not  know  — 
Seeing,  perchance,  the  smiling  lips  so  white, 
Your  ears  too  earthly  dull'd  to  hear  so  far  — 
How  exquisite  the  notes  that  traverse  light 
And  reach  the  song's  perfection  star  by  star. 
Hush !  let  the  seas  lament  him  —  do  not  weep, 
He  only,  singing,  sang  himself  to  sleep. 

Statued  to  marble  ecstasy  he  lies, 

While  cadences  of  silence  round  him  fall : 

But  the  freed  passion  of  his  song  may  rise, 

And  even  in  Heaven,  the  eternal  heart  enthrall. 

Flashing  among  the  cherubim,  he  wears 

His  thought-rayed  oriflamme  of  song,  as  right. 


ioo  SONGS. 

Nor  call  him  dead,  who,  winged  with  music,  bears 
An  anthemed  rapture  to  the  Infinite. 
Hush  !  let  the  seas  lament  him  —  do  not  weep, 
He  only,  singing,  sang  himself  to  sleep. 


SONGS.  101 


DANTE  TO  BEATRICE. 

Behold  the  God  of  song 
Has  sent  the  lightning  of  his  music  down  ; 
And  the  fork'd  flames  leap  passionate  and  strong 
Across  my  heart,  —  yea,  burning,  leap  along ; 
Nor  fiery  scars  I  shun,  lest  in  dead  seas  I  drown. 

From  out  my  youthful  ease, 
I  have  arisen ;    I  am  content  no  more 
With  my  own  breath,  nor  can  my  soul  appease 
With  wine,  wherein  I  see  the  unfiltered  lees ; 
Nought  but  the  blood  of  song  henceforward  will  I 
pour. 

And  thou,  sweet  angel,  thou 
May'st  teach  me,  by  the  calm  within  thine  eyes, 
To  bear  the  splendor  of  thine  iris'd  brow, 
Till,  flooded,  at  thy  virgin  side  I  bow, 
Climbing  by  my  own  scars  into  thy  paradise. 


102  SONGS. 


TO  A  BLUEBIRD. 

Sweep  from  the  south,  O  bird  with  azure  wings, 
That  comest,  breathless  singing  on  thy  way, 
And  bring  to  me  the  joy  of  other  springs, 
The  joy  of  springs  that  held  divinest  things  ; 
For  I  am  sad  to-day. 

The  pink  arbutus,  growing  sweet  and  fair, 
Will  soon  lie  blooming,  heart  to  heart  with  May, 
And  willow  boughs  will  silver  splendors  wear  : 
Thy  soul  unbare,  in  some  ungrieving  air, 
For  I  am  sad  to-day. 

Dimming  its  blue,  each  violet  that  appears 
Will  wear  a  film ;  and  on  each  lilied  spray 
Something  within  its  flowers  will  shine  like  tears. 
Sing  back  the  years  when  sunshine  held  no  spears, 
For  I  am  sad  to-day. 


SONGS.  103 

And  yet,  O  bird,  if  thou  should'st  straightway  soar, 
And  sing  to  me  thy  most  ecstatic  lay, 
The  violets  would  not  gladden,  as  of  yore, 
My  tears  would    pour,  my  heart  would  cry  "  No 
more  ! " 

For  I  am  sad  to-day. 


104  SONGS. 


ROSES'  HEARTS. 

I  looked  into  the  roses'  hearts,  and  lo  ! 
They  were  not  roses'  hearts.     They  were  the  red 
Of  summer  dawns  and  summer  sunsets  sped  ; 
Their  perfumes  woke  a  song  that  else  were  dead. 

Perchance  —  I  do  not  know  — 

They  were  the  glow 
Of  August  nights,  with  red  moons  hanging  low. 

Perchance  they  but  interpret  stars,  and  so 
As  attar'd  colors  of  the  stars,  that  know 
The  whole  magnificence  of  heaven,  they  grow 
And  blushing  with  their  blissful  knowledge,  blow. 

Perchance  —  I  do  not  know  — 

They  are  the  glow 
Of  August  nights,  with  red  moons  hanging  low. 


SONGS.  105 


TO  ONE  AFAR. 

I. 

The  autumn  days  are  lit 
With  fires  of  scarlet  bloom,  and,  songless,  flit 
The  shadowy  outlined  birds  that  southward  sway  ; 
Moon-risen  vapors  slowly  burn  away 
And  leave  uncovered  in  its  matchless  blue 
The  breast  of  heaven  !  The  winds,  blown  through 
The  gorgeous-colored  leaves,  bring  hints  divine 
Of  unforgotten  summer,  and  the  wine 
From  the  grapes'  purple  veins  is  still  unfreed  : 
But  thou,  sweet,  knowest  not.     Thou  dost  not  heed. 
I  stand  in  shadow  of  my  soul's  eclipse  — 
Thou  in  the  light  of  the  apocalypse. 

II. 

The  flaming  orange  sun 
Drops  countless  lances  from  its  gold  o'errun 
Down  on  the  valley's  grass,  and  wakes  to  sound 
The  crickets  dreaming  on  the  silent  ground ; 


106  SONGS. 

The  blood  of  June  still  stirs  the  autumn's  heart, 
And,  as  of  twilight's  tender  gloom  a  part, 
The  whippoonvills  breathe  out  their  sweet  dismays 
To  the  far  hills  that  guard  the  forest  ways. 
Still  shines  the  yarrow  'mid  the  waysides  green ; 
A  few  late  purple  clover  blooms  are  seen  ; 
June's  joys  nor  autumn's  pain  can  I  forget,  — 
Thine  is  the  summer,  sweet !  mine  the  regret. 
I  stand  in  shadow  of  my  soul's  eclipse  — 
Thou  in  the  light  of  the  apocalypse. 


SONGS.  107 


UNSUNG. 

I  heard,  elusive,  sweeping  by, 

The  song  that  I  had  sought  in  vain  ; 
But,  wrapt  in  mystery  on  high, 
Came  through  the  silence  of  the  sky 
One  azure  strain. 

I  saw  the  Day  in  countless  hues 
On  bosom  of  the  Twilight  die  ; 
Nor  knew  which  color  I  should  choose 
Where  hid  the  song,  and  so  must  lose 
The  ecstasy. 

I  saw  the  moon  with  dazzling  rim 

On  edge  of  the  horizon  hung, 
And  heard  the  echoes  faint  and  dim, 
As  if  amid  the  seraphim 

That  song  was  sung. 


io8  SONGS. 

Sing  on,  O  seraphim  !     Some  night, 

Perchance,  when  I  have  listened  long, 
I  shall  awak'n  from  slumber  white 
And  reach  in  an  untrammelled  flight 
That  azure  song. 


SONGS.  109 


MAGNOLIAS. 

Twice,  in  one  year,  the  white  magnolias  blew, 
The  year  my  golden  singer  went  away  ; 
Once,  when  the  deep-hued  August  flowers  grew, 
And    cuckoos,     through    the     twilights,      called 
"  cuckoo," 

And  once  —  in  May. 

Magnolias,  by  the  summer  suns  caressed, 
Came  back  to  bloom  —  but  fairer  sunshine  kept 
My  singer  unawakened,  on  Spring's  breast ; 
Nor  cuckoos'  twilight  call  could  stir  his  rest, 
So  sound  he  slept. 


i  io  SONGS. 


JUST  FOR  ONE  HOUR. 

Just  for  one  hour,  if  I  could  be  a  rose, 

With  exquisite  impassioned  power  of  blowing, 

My  soul  might  find  expression  for  its  woes,  — 
Its  agony  of  love  in  sweetness  showing,  — 

And  I  should  know  of  life  all  that  is  worth    the 
knowing. 

Just  for  one  hour,  if  it  could  be  no  more, 
To  wear  the  bloom  unshadowed  by  denying ; 

Then  I  should  be  content  my  soul  to  pour, 
Divinely  living  while  divinely  dying,  — 

Then  I  should  know  of  life  something  beyond  its 
sighing. 


SONGS.  in 


BEAT,  BEAT,  MY  SOUL  ! 

Beat,  beat,  my  soul,  beyond  the  day's  flush'd  rim, 
On  golden  tides  of  music  borne  along, 

Into  the  twilight,  passionate  and  dim, 

Where,  far-off,  lie  the  mystic  shores  of  song. 
Beat,  beat,  my  soul ! 

Beat,  beat,  until  the  dusky  shadows  lend 
Their  color  to  the  waves,  pulsed  to  and  fro, 

Till  from  the  violet  deeps  that  brooding  bend, 
The  splendid  stars  are  set  in  deeps  below. 
Beat !  beat,  my  soul ! 

Beat,  to  the  silvery  rush  of  a  refrain 
On  harmonies  that  modulate  and  sway, 

Till  the  moon's  slender  arc  is  lit  again 
And  the  blue  darks  of  silence  roll  away. 
Beat,  beat,  my  soul ! 


H2  SONGS. 

Beat,  stormy-winged,  until  the  full  sea  shakes 
Its  music-heaving  breast  to  billows  strong, 

Till  a  great  tidal  wave  outbursts  and  breaks 
And  lifts  you  singing  to  the  shores  of  song. 
Beat,  beat,  my  soul ! 


SONGS.  113 


SERENADE. 

Here's  the  golden  wonder, 

Crowning  summer  days, 

Full  moon  shining  yonder, 

In  a  sea-green  haze  ; 
Floods  of  splendor  falling 

Passionate  and  still ; 
Here's  the  low,  soft  calling 
Of  the  whippoorwill. 

'Neath  the  bloom  and  shine,  love, 
Sleep  with  dreams  divine,  love  ! 
All  my  heart  is  thine,  love, 
Sleep  !  sleep  on  ! 


ii4  SONGS. 


Here's  the  lake  a-shimmer, 
Light  o'erleaping  gloom  ; 
June's  heart  all  a-glimmer, 

Palpitating  bloom  ; 
Flower,  all  June's  surpassing ! 

Wild-rose,  fairest  blown ! 
Here's  a  soul's  joy,  massing, 
To  a  rainbow  grown. 

'Neath  the  bloom  and  shine,  love, 
Sleep  with  dreams  divine,  love  ! 
All  my  heart  is  thine,  love, 
Sleep  !  sleep  on  ! 


SONGS.  115 


LAVENDER. 

Within  her  hand  a  faded  leaf  she  pressed, 
While  sunset  hues  were  lingering  in  the  west ; 
And  all  the  silence  of  the  later  gloom 
Was  haunted  with  the  Lavender's  perfume  : 
I  could  not  answer  which  was  sweeter,  —  Death, 
or  bloom. 

The  hand  I  kissed :  the  leaf  I  could  not  take. 

I  thought,  bruised  hearts  may  sing,  and  singing 

break  ; 

And  yet  the  song  remains,  as  dust  of  leaf : 
The  perfume  of  a  life  may  be  its  grief ; 
And  bliss  its  early  flower,  though  blooming  time 

is  brief. 


ii6  SONGS. 

Ah  !  sad,  sweet  Lavender !  I  dare  not  say 
What  subtle  meanings  odors  can  convey  : 
Most  fitting  it  would  seem,  that  yours  should  blend 
With  living  memories  ;  lingering  to  the  end 
In   the  deserted  drawers  of  some  dear,  vanished 
friend. 


SONGS.  117 


SONG. 

Soul !  Why  this  infinite  dismay  ? 
On  life's  insurgent  bosom  tost, 
I  knew  its  joy —  I  pay  the  cost. 
Night  drifts  away, 
Heaven  holds  the  day,  — 
All  is  not  lost. 

Soul !  thou  art  not  a  coward  then  ? 

My  scorn  mounts  high.  —  Nay,  I  repent 

Not  one  wild  heart-beat  I  have  spent. 

Love  is  not  vain, 

Song  is  not  slain,  — 

Soul !  be  content. 


ii8  SONGS. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


AUGUST    12, 

The  Poet  sleeps  ;  no  more  he  dreameth  dreams 

Beneath  the  glittering  stars,  —  to  wake  and  tell. 

No  more  he,  clarion-voiced,  will  sing  away 

Men's  heavy  burdens  and  with  mighty  minstrelsy 

Smite,  note  by  note,  their  fetters  free. 

Ah  !  what  divine  and  wondrous  themes 

Are  his  to  choose,  whose  feet  now  stray 

In  heavenly  fields  ;  who,  living,  loved  so  well 

The  flowers  that  hidden  in  the  wild  woods  dwell, 

That  every  tender  grace  they  wore 

He  set  in  some  sweet  song  to  bloom  forevermore  ! 

The  Poet  sleeps.     His  was  no  wearied  flight 

That  circled  upward  to  the  infinite  :  — 

And  yet,  deep-hidden,  his  heart  wore  scars 

That  shone  to  heaven  like  stars. 

How  deep  and  wonderful  the  peace 

He  weareth  now  !     Death  with  its  high  release 


SONGS.  ng 

Has  brought  him  sweep 
Of  the  illimitable  harmonies. 

So  —  let  him  sleep  ; 
New  visions  and  new  flowers  he  sees, 
And  unastonished  hears 

Sublime  immensities  of  song  outlyrick'd   by   the 
spheres. 

O  silent  Poet  !  in  thy  hushed  heart  lies 
Knowledge  of  unencompassed  mysteries. 
Thou  sleepest  well ;  and  yet  —  our  eyes  are  wet. 
If  thy  mute  lips  could  breathe  the  world's  regret, 
Then  fit  the  song.     Elsewhere  thy  soul  has  found 
Music  ineffable,  and  so  been  crowned 
With  cadences  celestial ;  thou  art 
Of  the  Eternal  Symphony  a  part, 

And  'neath  thine  eyes 
In  the  white  light  of  heaven  eternal  beauty  lies. 


120  SONGS. 


HINGHAM  CEMETERY. 

MEMORIAL    DAY. 

It  is  not  flowers  in  any  garden  grown 

That  I  would  pluck,  however  fair  their  grace, 

To  lay  —  where  for  so  long  the  sun  has  shone  — 

On  my  child's  resting-place  ;  — 
For  roses  with  their  reddest  hearts,  nor  yet 
The  passion-flowers  that  symbolled  crosses  bear, 
Would  breathe  the  insurgent  passion  of  regret 

My  soul  must  ever  wear ;  — 
But  with  supreme  outreaching  I  would  fling 
The  whole  wild-flower  rapture  of  the  whole  young 
Spring. 

To-day,  let  azure  in  the  skies  abide, 

And  sunshine  kiss  the  grasses  where  he  lies  ; 

For  time,  nor  tears,  nor  even  Death,  can  hide 

The  vision  of  his  eyes. 

But  not  for  him  the  martial  strains  that  surge, 
And,  crashing  through  the  air,  mine  ears  await, 


SONGS.  121 

As  if  despair,  through  music's  pang,  would  urge 

Itself  articulate ; 

But  'bove  my  radiant  boy  let  bluebirds  sing, 
As  to  some  sky-swept  bird  their  songs  again  might 
bring. 

He  will  not  wake.  —  He  sings  in  upper  air, 
The  Spring  enwraps  him  like  another  Spring, 
His  heart,  that  sent  out  sunshine  everywhere, 

Went  sunward  wandering, 

Nor  with  earth's  bloom  could  wholly  be  content, 
But  to  the  unforgotten  angels  drew, 
And,  with  full  measure  of  youth's  gladness,  went 

The  morning  sunrise  through  : 
And  by  his  tide-watched  grave  unceasing  rise, 
As  echoing  my  soul,  the  sea's  lamenting  sighs. 


122  SONGS. 


A  YELLOW  CHRYSANTHEMUM. 

Late  Autumn  flower !  your  petals  hold 

The  passion  of  a  thousand  suns, 
That  through  your  veins,  transfused  to  gold, 
In  color  runs. 

You  come  when  other  flowers  are  dead, 
And  songless  winds  your  tassels  sway 
When  from  the  harvest  moon  its  red 
Has  burned  away. 

Yet  something  of  its  fire  intense, 

And  heat  of  summer  noons  as  well, 
In  your  sun-hued  magnificence 

Somewhere  may  dwell. 

Oh,  poet-flower !  if,  seeing  your  gold, 

I  felt  no  rushing  joy,  that  sped 
To  music,  then  my  heart  were  cold, 
And  song  were  dead. 


SONGS.  123 


A  FANTASIE. 

I  cannot  find  the  way, 

Mine  eyes  see  nought  but  dark ; 
The  music  I  essay 
A  thousand  discords  slay  ; 

Yet  something  like  an  arc 
Sometimes  across  the  sky 

Sweeps  luminous  with  light. 
It  is  a  fantasie  — - 

A  vision  taking  flight  — 
Night. 

I  see  the  dark,  until 

Mine  eyes  are  filled  with  dark ; 
Yet  even  the  midnights  thrill ; 
In  purples  never  still 

Hides  the  immortal  lark 
I  cannot  reach  afar 


124  SONGS. 

To  notes  so  mocking  high 
The  lark  sings  to  a  star. 

It  is  a  fantasie  — 
A  rapture  taking  flight  — 
Night. 


SONGS.  12$ 


WHAT  IS  A  ROSE? 

I. 

What  is  a  rose  ?     Dear,  turn  your  head  away, 
And  I  will  kiss  you  answer  in  good-by. 
It  is  the  grief  a  poet  cannot  say  ; 
A  sweet,  sad  glory,  too  divine  to  stay ; 
It  is  an  unshed  tear  for  love's  delay, 
That  burns  the  heart  the  while  the  eyes  are  dry  ; 
Something  between  a  rapture  and  a  sigh  : 
It  is  —  good-by. 

What  is  a  rose  ?     Dear,  if  I  saw  your  eyes, 
I  might  not  kiss  you  answer  in  good-by. 
It  is  a  dream  within  a  dream,  that  lies 
Blushing  with  sweetness  of  love's  harmonies  ; 
It  in  an  angel  in  a  crimson  guise  ; 
A  golden-hearted,  burning  mystery  ; 
Something  between  a  rapture  and  a  sigh  : 
It  is  —  good-by. 


126  SONGS. 

II. 

What  is  a  rose  ?     A  rose  is  not  a  rose  : 

It  is  a  soul  wherein  deep  mysteries  reign  ; 

It  is  a  waning  moon's  regret ;  a  pain  ; 

A  song  transfixed,  that  into  perfume  goes, 

Telling  the  all  of  Love  in  language  that  Love  knows. 

Some  wondrous  current  through  its  being  flows ; 
It  is  the  dead  year's  passion —  crimson  taught ; 
It  is  a  dazzling  fantasy  ;  a  thought 
That,  where  it  touched  the  fire  of  sunrise,  shows 
A  poet's  exaltation  attar'd  to  a  rose. 


SONGS.  127 


DREAMS. 

I  would  not  cut  your  youthful  dreams  adrift 

From  youth  that  gave  them  glow, 
But  let  life's  deeper  waters  swell  and  lift 
Diviner  dreams  that  grow. 

Dreams  may  go  by  ; 
But  dreams,  —  dreams  cannot  die. 

Youth's  fairest  aspirations  are  but  base 

To  fairest  work  begun  : 

Climb,  dream  by  dream,  till  to  the  statue's  face, 
The  immortal  grace  is  won. 

Dreams  may  go  by  ; 
But  dreams,  —  dreams  cannot  die. 


128  SONGS. 


JULIA  ROMANA  ANAGNOS. 

She  waked  to  Rome  :  — 
Its  seven  majestic  hills  that  towered  away 
Her  cradle  sentinelled  ;  and  from  the  dome 
Of  its  great  vast  cathedral,  day  by  day 
The  longing  sunshine  dropt,  till  at  her  feet  it  lay. 

Her  spirit  drew 

From  the  charmed  atmosphere  an  unshaped  lyre ; 
And  the  old  stately  Roman  grandeurs  grew 
Into  her  senses  as  a  rose  drinks  fire 
From  splendid  summer  suns,  unconscious  of  desire. 

Like  the  sky's  blue, 

With  depths  unsearchable,  she  went  her  ways  ; 
The  wondering  world  drew  near,    while    flashing 

through 

Her  simple  words,  came  sparks  of  lyric's  blaze, 
Lighted  in  golden  dreams  of  the  old  classic  days. 


SONGS.  129 

Higher  than  are 

The  smiles  on  Rome's  unbreathing  statues'  lips 
The  look  she  wore,  but  like  some  tender  star 
That  in  its  occultation  shining  slips 
Behind  some  larger  light,  Heaven    drew    her    to 
eclipse. 

And  so  —  she  sleeps, 
A  nightingale  o'ertaken  by  death's  dark 
Before  the  listening  skies  had  heard  her  deeps 
Of  unwaked  music,  that  are  rising  —  Hark  !  — 
On  the  skies'  other  side,  above  the  rainbow's  arc. 


130  SONGS. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

It  was  only  a  little  sock, 
That  was  dropt  erewhile  on  the  floor ; 
But  the  shape  of  the  baby's  foot  it  bore, 
And  I  kiss'd  it  and  laid  it  away 
—  It  seems  but  the  other  day  — 
Now  —  my  lamb  is  of  God's  own  flock. 

And  the  flood-gates  of  memory  ope 
With  his  eyes,  that  were  purple-dark, 
Lighted  up  as  with  Heaven's  own  spark, 
Seraphic,  he  questioned  my  own  : 
Now  —  the  whole  earth  has  been  outgrown, 
And  his  soul  has  found  infinite  scope. 

But  my  heart  is  wearing  a  scar 
Of  a  wound  that  went  down  to  its  root, 
That  has  shape  like  a  tiny  foot. 
This  is  all  —  to  my  mortal  sight  — 
But  an  angel  sandalled  with  light 
Is  rising  from  star  to  star. 


SONGS.  131 


TO  HELEN  IN  HEAVEN. 
I  gave  you,  on  one  golden  summer's  day, 
A  rose,  —  because  I  knew  you  fair  and  sweet ; 
Now  that  the  skies  have  lured  your  heart  away, 

Let  roses  unplucked  stay  : 
I  cannot  reach  to  lay  them  at  your  feet. 

And  since  your  wings  have   crossed  the  dazzling 

line, 

I  wonder  how  I  dared  your  lips  to  kiss  : 
But  when  in  Heaven  you  pluck  a  rose  divine, 

Wear  it,  O  saint  !  as  sign 
That  deathless  love  is  part  of  heavenly  bliss. 


132  SONGS. 


I  SIT  BESIDE  MY  DEAD. 

I  sit  beside  my  dead, 

Silent,  and  cold,  and  infinitely  dear,  — 

With  passion  of  my  grief  uncomforted, 
Watching  the  autumn  moon  that  rises  red, 

Without  one  grieving  moan,  one  falling  tear. 

Others  I  loved  have  slept, 

Smiling  themselves  to  heaven  with  lips  divine  ; 
But  then  with  flooding  tenderness  I  wept 
I  knew  that  all  Love's  holiest  I  kept  ; 

That,  though  their    hearts    were    stilled,   the 
dead  I  kissed  were  mine. 

But  this  is  new  despair,  — 
For  majesty  of  death  has  been  denied  ; 

The  bitter  knowledge  in  my  soul  I  bear  : 
I  cannot  say  Love  waiteth  otherwhere  : 
I  sit  beside  my  dead  —  my  dead  who  has  not 
died. 


LAMENTS. 


LAMENTS.  135 


PRELUDE. 

I  have  looked  long,  with  unforgetting  eyes, 
Into  the  little  children's  vacant  places  ; 
Seeing,  forevermore,  the  visions  rise 
Of  their  immortal  faces. 

And  tears,  that  ofttimes  were  too  hot  to  fall, 
That  might  have  eased,  a  gentle  solace  bringing, 
From  out  my  heart  —  as  lightning  'scaped  from 

thrall  - 
Have  scorched  themselves  to  singing. 


136  LAMENTS. 


RACHAEL. 

If  some  white  angel  had  come  down  and  said, 
"  God  keeps  sweet  space  to  lay  your  darling's  head," 
And  questioned  —  "  Which  one,  out  of  all  the  three 
(My  flock  so  thinned),  was  dearest  unto  me  ?"  — 
Could  I  have  answered,  as  I  should  to-day, 
'Knowing  my  whitest  dove,  though  not  yet  flown 
away  ? 

Nay  !  if  he  still  had  tarried,  Heavenly  sent, 
Saying,  "  Although  your  aching  heart  is  spent 
With  constant  weeping,  yet  I  fain  must  take 
Your  purest  lily,  for  the  lily's  sake  "  — 
Should  I  have  trembling  known   which  was  most 

fair  ? 
Would  not  the  one  he  chose  have  seemed   most 

hard  to  spare  ? 

Ah,  it  is  well  that  angels  come  not  so ! 

Love  has  no  choice  but  drink  the  dregs  of  woe. 


LAMENTS.  137 

If  in  the  sacred  silence  of  my  heart 
I  kept  an  idol  that  was  set  apart, 
Heaven  has  made  claim,  and  I  can  never  touch 
The  forehead   of  my  boy,   whose  coming  was   so 
much. 

He  was  my  only  son  :  he  never  knew 
An  older  brother's  care,  though  there  were  two, 
Born  years  ago,  with  natures  all  too  fine 
For  human  rearing,  that  God  made  divine ; 
And  he  no  longer  marvels  at  the  tie 
He  scarce  could  understand,  since  they  were  never 
by. 

Through  the  long,  silent,  summer  days,  I  weep: 
How  can  the  lilies  bloom,  and  he  asleep  ? 
And  memories  of  his  life,  foreshadowing 
Its  Heaven  in  sweetness,  do  but  add  a  sting 
To  this,  my  crowning  sorrow,  and  unsheath 
A  sharp  despair,  that  pierces  mightier  than  grief. 

They  say  that  "  It  is  well  !  "  that  "  All  of  bliss 
Is  his  !  "  —  but  'tis  the  living  touch  I  miss. 


138  LAMENTS. 

And  of  his  dawning  glory  not  a  doubt 
Ever  arises,  —  but  I  stand  without  : 
It  needs  a  higher  faith  than  mine  to  see, 
Although  I  know  his  peace,  that  "  It  is  well  "  for 
me. 

Ah  !  many  a  scathing  sorrow  have  I  known ; 

And  so  familiar  has  the  Presence  grown 

That  I  could  almost  wonder,  when  I  dare 

To  smile,  lest  weeping  come  in  unaware ; 

And  yet  my  saddened  life  goes  on  again  :  — 

The  scabbard  of  the  sword  is  seldom  cut  in  twain. 

If  I  one  hour  his  little  head  could  hold 
And  take  the  hands  I  can  no  more  enfold, 
Could  press  my  lips  once  more  upon  his  face, 
I  should  be  willing  then  to  give  him  place 
Among  the  angels  ;  but  it  cannot  be  :  — 
My  heart  has  reached  ebb-tide,  that  knew  the  ful 
ler  sea. 

But  in  that  Heaven  of  which  he  often  spake, 
The  little  group  I  miss,  for  him  must  make 


LAMENTS.  139 

Companions,  that  will  lead  him  with  delight, 
Through  "living  pastures,"   up  from   "height  to 

height ;  " 

And  yet,  I  do  not  think  he  will  forget, 
Although  himself  so  blissful,  how  I  love  him  yet. 

My  tender  little  boy  ;  I  dare  not  think 

Of  all  his  fond  endearments,  lest  I  sink 

To  desolation  :  —  Was  it  not  too  much 

To  hope  to  keep  him,  when  I  knew  that  such 

"  As  angels  do  their  Father's  face  behold  ?  "  — 

And  lilies  soonest  white,  are  planted  in  the  fold  ? 

Ah,  "they  that  sow  in  tears,  in  joy  shall  reap:  " 
And  I,  some  day,  all  tired  may  fall  asleep 
And  in  one  moment  find  my  boy  again,  — 
Learning  through  Christ  the  blessedness  of  pain. 
God's  aftermath  is  sweeter  than  the  bloom, 
And    Heaven  shall  make   most   clear  what   Earth 
has  veiled  in  gloom. 


140  LAMENTS. 


NOT  THAT  SONG. 

Nay !  not  that  Song  !  I  could  not  bear  to  hear 
The  words  he  sang,  from  any  lips  less  dear 

Than  those  that  God  hath  stilled  : 
For  I  should  feel  that  every  pause  was  filled 
With  pulsing  notes  of  music,  all  too  sweet 

For  human  ears  to  meet  : 

And  fancy  that  I  heard 
A  sweeping  sound,  as  hush  of  angels  stirred, 
Yet  know  I  could  not  see  their  glittering  wings, 
Or  reach,  through  the  thin  air,  to  where  my  singer 
sings. 

Not  that  Song,  dear  !  Silence  may  heal  the  sore  ; 
My  grief,  that  will  be  grief  for  evermore, 

Is  still  too  fresh,  too  new. 
I  sometimes  wonder  what  God's  children  do, 
Through  the  long  years  that  they  must  wait,  and 
weep 


LAMENTS.  141 

Until  they  fall  asleep  : 

Since  I  do  look  with  sighs 
On  fairest  things  ;  because  my  soul  outcries 
In  anguish  at  the  pangs  that  memory  brings, 
Seeming  as  it  must  cleave  to  where  my  singer  sings. 

Ah  !  the  pure  eyes  that  looked  with  tears  in  mine, 
Feeling  the  tender  pathos  of  each  line, 

Will  gather  tears  no  more. 
And  while  I  heard  him  sing  this  one  song  o'er, 
I  felt  the  shadow  of  the  parting  near ; 
I  said  "Too  sweet,  too  dear  :" 
But  now,  more  dear,  more  sweet, 
My  panting  soul  does  seem  as  it  must  beat 
Its  barriers  here,  and  find  Love's  broader  wings, 
Then  sweep,  in  eager  flight,   to  where  my  singer 
sings. 


142  LAMENTS. 


HE  CAME  AS  COMES  THE  SPRING. 

He  came  as  comes  the  Spring  ; 
A  cherub,  like  the  Virgin's,  radiant-eyed, 
That  to  your  hearts  the  sunshine  seemed  to  bring, 
As  from  ^ome  kingdom  fairer  and  more  wide  ; 
A  glory  on  his  face,  as  if  he  knew 
How  near  the  heavenly  place  his  feet  were  straying 
to. 

Glad  in  your  arms  he  smiled, 
Leaping  to  song,  and  wondering  at  the  stars  ; 
Stretching  his  arm  out,  like  a  very  child, 
Yet  with  an  angel's  power,  through  crystal  bars 
Seeming  to  see  the  illumined  lilies  shine, 
And,  while  you  held  him  close,  chose  playmates  all 
divine. 


LAMENTS.  143 

Happy,  they  took  his  hand, 
Wearing  the  light  of  peace  that  angels  wear, 
And,  silent,  led  him  to  that  other  land, 
More  radiant-eyed,  more  beautiful  than  e'er. 
His  childish  heart  grew  still  with  might  of  bliss  : 
It  was  not   Death  he  knew — it  was  the    Shep 
herd's  kiss. 


144  LAMENTS. 


AN  ANSWER. 

Dead  !     Do  not  ask  me  who  !     I  cannot  tell, 
Whether  it  was  my  boy,  or  I,  that  fell 

That  fair,  spring  day  ; 
Only  he  died,  and  smiling  went  away ; 
And  I,  who  daily  die,  am  never  free 
From  this  material  life  that  fetters  me  ; 
Yet  never  soldier  on  the  field  has  lain, 
With  sword-thrust  in  his  heart,  more  surely  slain  ; 
Without  the  bliss  of  death,  which  is  forgetting  pain. 

Nay  !  do  not  pity  ;  for  the  wound  is  such 
It  will  not  suffer  even  the  tenderest  touch  : 

Yet,  to  forget 

Would  leave  a  deeper  scarring  than  regret  ; 
And  so,  it  may  be  that  with  surgeons'  art 
God  only  probes  to  heal  my  aching  heart ; 
Perhaps  the  angels,  if  they  stood  confessed, 
Would  say,  Love's  travailing  doth  purchase  rest ; 


LAMENTS.  145 

That  Heaven  but  makes  its  claim  Love's  owner 
ship  to  test. 

I  set  the  seal  of  silence  on  his  name  ; 
I  dare  not  breathe  it,  lest  this  inward  flame 

Escaping  so 

Should  devastate  my  soui  with  fiercest  woe  ; 
I  cannot  even  dream  of  him,  though  night, 
More  kind  than  wistful  day,  hides  me  from  sight  ; 
Then,  weeping  my  beloved,  a  solemn  sense 
As  silence  thrilling  with  omnipotence, 
Seems  bringing  him  more  near,  through  longings 

so  intense. 

How  shall  I  know  what  treasures  there  might  be 
Sheathed  in  that  silence,  if  my  heart  could  see 

And  grasp  aright  ? 

How  shall  I  know  what  questions  infinite 
Might  then  be  cleared,  if  only  clue  most  dim 
Were  given  to  solve  God's  parting  me  from  him  ? 
Soul  that  dost  shrink  and  tremble  with  delay, 
Death  doth  imprison  rapture :  Who  shall  say 
Rapture  may  not  be  mine,  when  death  shall  drop 
away  ? 


146  LAMENTS. 


THE  UNUSED  TOY. 

I  closed  a  drawer,  with  sudden  pang,  to-day, 
For  'neath  the  thing  I  sought  there  lay  a  toy, 
Carven,  and  cut,  and  chipped,  in  childish  way  • 
Too  sacred  to  destroy  :  — 

A  wooden  hammer,  that  with  mimic  nails 
Had  builded  tiny  ships  (launched  forth  anon), 
And  kept  afloat  with  breath  on  snowy  sails 
Till  narrow  shores  were  won. 

How  little  then  I  knew  those  ships  that  went, 
Slender  and  gay,  across  the  shallow  seas, 
Were  but  the  pastime  of  an  angel,  sent 
To  teach  Love's  mysteries. 

For,  to  the  rapture  of  eternal  calms, 
Lifted  on  noiseless  wings,  he  went  away, 
Bearing  white  lilies  in  his  folded  palms, 
Resting  from  childish  play. 


LAMENTS.  147 

Now,  sculptured  on  a  marble's  base,  they  show 
He  sleeps,  unconscious  of  my  soul's  lament, 
While  on  the  Spring's  warm  bosom  still  they  grow, 
Smiling  as  when  he  went. 

And  could  he  wander  back  to  earth  awhile, 
Crossing  the  golden  threshold,  granted  leave, 
Heaven  would  itself  be  lone  without  his  smile, 
And  hush  !  —  he,  too,  might  grieve. 


148  LAMENTS. 


THRENODY. 

There  is  a  sadness  in  each  summer  day  ; 

The  quivering  sunshine  shadows  seems  to  wear ; 

For  out  beyond  the  hills  stretched  far  away, 

Love !  thou  hast  wandered,  and  I  see 

not  where  : 

I  do  not  know  the  summer,  howsoever 
fair. 

There  is  no  gladness  in  the  morning's  red  ; 
The  rising  sun  but  heralds  in  despair  ; 
Weeping,  I  watch  till  slow-winged  nights  are 

sped. 
Love  !  thou  hast  wandered,  but  I  see 

not  where  : 

I  do  not  know  the  summer,  howsoever 
fair. 


LAMENTS.  149 

Fruitless  my  watching,  love  !  for  thou  art  dead  : 
The  birds,  to  waken  thee,  sing  high  in  air  ; 
But  lilies  bend  above  thy  silent  head. 

Love  !  thou  hast  wandered,  but  I  see 

not  where  : 

I  do  not  know  the  summer,  howsoever 
fair. 


150  LAMENTS. 


ADIEU. 

I  walked  at  noontide  through  the  waving  grass, 
•  Where  summer  daisies  in  the  west  winds  blew, 
And  saw  the  dragon-fly,  slow  winging,  pass, 

And   heard    his   sharp,    sad     minors     dizzying 
through  — 

Adieu !  Adieu  ! 

The  birds,  that  sunrise  on  their  bosoms  bore, 
In  sudden  sweeps  of  flame  above  me  flew, 
And,  as  with  music's  passion  brimming  o'er, 
Dropped  liquid  notes  that  fell,    with   meanings 
new  — 

Adieu  !  Adieu  ! 

The  blackberry  blossoms  into  trembling  fell, 
And  clover-perfumes  to  their  ways  gave  clue  ; 

The  roaming  wild-bees  touched  a  lily's  bell, 
And  from  its  silver  heart,  slow  tolling,  drew  — 
Adieu !  Adieu  ! 


LAMENTS  151 

Nor  could  I,  numbed  with  cold  despair,  escape 
The  maddening  glory  of  the  sky's  calm  blue  ; 

But  something  on  its  breast  took  shadowy  shape, 
And  to  my  pain-dull'd  soul  smiled  eyes  I  knew  - 
Adieu  !  Adieu  ! 

Still  tolled  the  lilies  :  weeping  tears  of  blood 

Amid  the  flowers,  Calvary  I  knew  : 
The  blinding  sunshine  held  me  in  its  flood ; 

But  —  oh,  my  dead    first-born  !  —  the   heavens 
held  you : 

Adieu !  Adieu  ! 


152  LAMENTS. 


LAMENT. 

She  could  not  give  me  back  my  kisses,  so 
I  went  away  to  meet  the  falling  night, 

And  told  my  desolation  to  the  snow, 

And  saw  the  empty  nests  all  still  and  white. 
"  And  this  is  all  !  "  I  said  : 

"  A  kiss  —  a  far-off  song  —  and  silence  of  the  dead." 

It  was  but  yesterday  that  she  had  pressed 

My  hand  in  hers  —  a  rapture  in  her  eyes  ; 
Now  she  was  lying,  roses  on  her  breast, 

And  with  new  wings  that  swept  immortal  skies. 

"  And  this  is  all  !  "  I  said  : 

"  A  smile  —  a   far-off  flight  —  and  silence  of  the 
dead." 


LAMENTS.  153 

Since  then,  the  birds  have  built  their  nests  anew, 
And  warmer  air  with  singing  has  been  rent ; 

But  song  nor  sighs  can  pierce  the  skies'  soft  blue, 
And  reach  that  other  summer  where  she  went. 
Darkness  has  fallen  instead  : 

And  there  is  no  reply  —  but  silence  of  the  dead. 


154  LAMENTS. 


LET  ME  BUT  BE  A  BIRD. 

Let  me  but  be  a  bird  with  power  of  reaching 
The  blue  divineness  of  the  skies  above, 

And  I  would  sing  with  passion  of  beseeching, 
Until  the  heavens  were  rent  with  pain  of  love  ; 
Then,  piercing  through  to  mine, 

I  might  hear  answering  notes  of  song  divine. 

Ah  !  what  delight,  no  inward  barriers  heeding, 

Defying  weariness  to  hold  in  place, 
One  swift,  electric  flash  of  thought  but  needing 

To  sweep  my  soul  through  sunrise  flames  of  space ; 

Then,  seeing  the  heavens  apart, 
I  might  float  through,  dear  love,  and  find  thy  heart. 


LAMENTS.  155 


HIS  SIXTH  BIRTHDAY. 

He  would  be  six  to-day  ; 

My  brave,  blithe  boy :   and  I  have  learned  to  say, 
"  He  would  have  been,"  and  not,  "  He  is." 

Yet,  pierced  with  sweetest  memories, 
I  cannot  bear  to  lift  my  head  awhile, 
To  meet  the  coming  Spring's  returning  smile. 
Other  than  sunshine  now  doth  blind  my  eyes  ; 
I  cannot  watch  it  woo  the  willing  skies  : 
Rather  the  wintry  tempests  that  have  swept 
To  desolation,  weeping  while  I  wept. 
Nay  !  when  the  birds  do  sing,  as  if  forgetting 
The  tidal  wave  of  my  last  year's  regretting, 

Their  unchanged  rapture  seems  to  wake 
The  same  tumultuous  throes  as  when  my  heart  did 
break. 

Yet,  from  thine  eyes,  O  Spring  ! 
I  cannot  wholly  turn,  since  thou  did'st  bring 


156  LAMENTS. 

This  overflowing  cup  of  joy  — 

The  birthday  of  my  absent  boy. 
I  called  thee  fair  ;  then  cruel,  though  still  fair, 
With  the  same  hand  thou  gavest  me  despair  : 
Giving  and  taking  —  with  just  five  years'  space 
For  blind,  blind  worship,  —  then  the  empty  place. 
And  yet  the  gentler  May  did  bring  the  blow 
That  left  my  boy  his  blissful  way  to  go, 
And  me  to  death.     If  death   could    still    grief's 

passion,  — 
If  only  angels  some  sweet  way  could  fashion 

To  linger  near  us  when  we  weep,  — 
It  would  not  be  so  hard  to  let  the  children  sleep. 

Ah  !  who  will  take  my  place, 
And  kiss  him  softly  on  his  upturned  face 
With  kisses,  one  for  every  year, 

Just  as  I  always  used  to  here  ? 
It  is  the  first  birthday  he  ever  spent 
Away  from  me  ;  no  wonder  I  am  rent 
With  grievous  weeping  :  yet  I  know  that  he 
Doth  walk  with  Christ,  and  Christ  doth  pity  me. 


LAMENTS.  157 

Child  of  my  inmost  depths,  take  from  my  soul, 
Outreaching  after  thee,  the  Eternal  whole 
Of  love  !     I  cannot  see  his  heavenly  growing, 
But  Sharon's  roses  are  forever  blowing ; 

And  what  did  seem  his  life's  eclipse 
Was  but  Death's  shadow  lifting  him  to  the  Eternal 
lips. 


158  LAMENTS. 

HIS  SEVENTH  BIRTHDAY. 

He  cannot  come  to-day, 
And  lean  his  loving  head  upon  my  breast, 
Bringing  me  back  such  blissful  sense  of  rest, 
Or  look  at  me  with  the  old,  tender  smile 
That  I  have  missed  for  such  a  dreary  while. 
I  cannot  tell  my  boy  how  he  has  grown 
Since  the  last  year  I  held  him  for  my  own  ; 
But  angels  may  keep  festival  in  Heaven 

That  he  is  seven 
To-day. 

I  should  not  be  so  sad 
If  I  could  bid  my  selfish  longings  fly  ; 
His  joy  would  be  enough  to  satisfy. 
But  I  am  weak  ;  I  cannot  still  the  pain, 
Knowing  that  I  shall  reach  my  arms  in  vain, 
Because  he  is  away.     My  heart  is  worn 
All  threadbare  with  regrettings  it  has  borne. 
Ah  !  can  he  hear  me  say,  dwelling  in  Heaven, 

"  Sweet,  thou  art  seven 
To-day  "  ? 


LAMENTS.  159 

Never  but  five  to  me  ! 
With  him  afar,  the  birthdays  that  are  past 
Do  seem  as  naught,  only  as  landmarks  vast 
Set  in  my  heart's  great  wilderness  of  woe. 
And  yet  it  would  be  sweet  if  I  could  know 
How  angelhood  doth  glorify,  how  bliss 
Transfigures ;  but  I  might  not  dare  to  kiss 
His  brow,  or  say,  flooded  with  light  of  Heaven, 

"  Sweet,  thou  art  seven 
To-day." 

And,  if  his  eyes  can  see 
The  infinite  horizon  that  doth  sweep 
Into  celestial  space,  why  should  I  weep  ? 
I  think  there  will  be  kept  for  me  a  place 
Beside  him.     He  would  miss  his  mother's  face 
In  the  eternal  years  to  come.     And  I 
Some  day  may  go  to  him  all  rapturously, 
And  say,  with  love  that  shall  be  made  divine, 

"  Sweet,  thou  art  mine 
To-day." 


160  LAMENTS. 


HIS  EIGHTH  BIRTHDAY. 

Faithful  th'  untired  spring  has  brought  again 

The  birthday  of  my  dead  ;  and,  darting  low, 

The  birds  with  whirr  of  wings  sweep  to  and  fro, 

Singing  with  the  same  ecstasy  as  when 

Upon  my  heart  this  avalanche  of  pain 

In  awful  silence  had  not  fallen.     Oh  ! 

Tears  have  been  token,  since  three  years  ago, 

How  infinite  love's  grieving,  and  how  vain. 

Yet  if  the  angels  smile  on  him  to-day 

(All  tenderer  for  the  knowledge  he  is  eight), 

If  lilies  whiten  in  his  rapturous  way, 

What  is  it,  then,  that  I  am  desolate  ? 

I  think  (perchance  as  crown  to  heavenly  bliss) 

That  Christ  will  give  my  boy  his  birthday  kiss. 


LAMENTS.  161 


HIS  NINTH  BIRTHDAY. 

O  birds  !   that  cleave  the  pallid  mists  of  spring, 
The  skies'  clear  azure  making  glad  your  way, 
Stay  your  full  transport  as  you  turn  to  sing! 
For  unchecked  song  my  grieving  heart  would  slay  : 
My  little  child  is  dead  ; 

Sing  softly,  birds,  to-day  ! 

The  earth  had  waked  to  bloom  when  first  I  knew 
His  pure,  soft  presence  ;  on  my  heart  he  lay, 
Bringing  great  peace,  as  God's  white  angels  do,  — 
A  dream  of  Heaven  that  Heaven  has  borne  away. 
Wild  flowers  have  come  again  ; 
Sing  softly,  birds,  to-day  ! 

The  springtime  is  too  beautiful  to  bear : 
In  the  warm  sunshine,  every  separate  ray 
Sharp  pierces  me,  as  with  a  new  despair  ; 
The  fair,  sweet  violets  seem  unplucked  to  stay, 
Waiting  for  childish  hands  ; 
Sing  softly,  birds,  to-day  ! 


162  LAMENTS. 

Yet  Love's  strong  flood,  grown  infinite  with  tears, 
May,  surging  onward  in  resistless  way, 
Sweep  up  to  Heaven  the  anguish  of  these  years, 
And  in  its  might  the  eternal  gateways  sway : 
Peace  may  be  mine  at  last  ; 
Sing  softly,  birds,  to-day  ! 


LAMENTS.  163 


HIS  TENTH  BIRTHDAY. 

The  snowdrops  have  come  back  to  early  spring, 
Lifting  their  shy  sweet  faces  to  the  sun, 
And  with  their  marvellous  faint  perfumes  bring 
A  passionate  remembrance  of  one 

Who  has  gone  far  away,  — 
The  little  fair-haired  child  who  would  be  ten  to-day. 

The  great  sad  moon  watched  with  me  through  the 

night, 

While  I  was  weeping  that  I  could  not  know, 
When  the  white  dawn  should  come,  the  pure  delight 
Of  pillowing  his  dear  head  where,  long  ago, 

In  boyish  grace  he  lay,  — 
The  little  fair-haired  child  who  would  be  ten  to-day. 


104  LAMENTS. 

Upon  the  distant  hill-tops  lies  the  snow, 
All  shining  white,  'bove  which,  on  daring  wing, 
The  birds  sweep  high,  and  in  the  sunny  glow, 
Seeing  the  spring  swift  gliding,  sing, 

Wondering  one  flower's  delay,  — 
The  little  fair-haired  child  who  would  be  ten  to-day. 

What  can  the  spring  bring  back  to  me  but  rain  ? 
I  cannot  'neath  its  soft  blue  skies  forget. 
The  crocuses  that  flame  bring  fires  of  pain, 
That,  leaping,  burn  my  heart  with  fierce  regret  ; 

The  snowdrops  will  not  stay,  — 
Lay  them  upon  his  grave,  who  would  be  ten  to-day. 


LAMENTS.  165 


HIS  ELEVENTH  BIRTHDAY. 

You  came  with  singing  of  the  birds,  O  child  ! 
And  the  few  springs  that  in  mine  eyes  you  smiled, 
The  brimming  measure  of  life's  joy  I  knew ; 
And  each  sweet  birthday,  as  you  lovelier  grew, 
I  held  you  closer,  seeing  in  your  face 
Something  diviner  than  its  childish  grace, 
Till  nearer,  nearer  bliss  your  soul's  wings  beat, 
And  then  — you  vanished,  sweet ! 

And  now  the  happy  years  that  you  have  known 
The  angels'  care  outnumbering  those  have  grown 
In  which  your  little  life  with  mine  was  blent  ; 
But  I  —  I  have  sore  missed  you  since  you  went. 
And  yet,  though  grieving,  still  I  give  you  joy 
That  you  are  sheltered  in  the  fold,  my  boy, 
And  shining  hosts  may  know  in  heavenly  way, 
You  are  eleven  to-day  ! 


166  LAMENTS. 

Oh,  vanished  child  !  each  softly  budding  spring, 
In  which  the  bluebirds  passionately  sing, 
The  sacrament  of  grief  anew  I  take  ; 
And  yet,  because  earth's  pain  can  never  shake 
Your  soul  to  such  despair  —  I  am  content. 
Your  whole  pure  life  in  glory  will  be  spent, 
And  on  celestial  hills,  with  glad  young  feet, 
God  safely  leads  you,  sweet ! 


LAMENTS.  167 


HIS  TWELFTH  BIRTHDAY. 

The  years  have  onward  swept ; 
And  radiant  springs  that  would  not  be  denied 
Have  come  and  gone  since  that  last  birthday,  kept 
Before  my  child,  with  heavenly  smiling,  died  ; 
And  now,  once  more,  sweet  tumults  fill  the  air, 
As  stir  of  growing  things  that  break  sod  unaware. 

Again,  Earth's  tears  that  flow 
Are  changed  to  violets  (in  the  sunshine's  gold), 
That,  wrapt  in  their  own  purple  shadowings,  grow 
In  the  same  sheltered  places  as  of  old. 
Again,  the  birds,  with  untired  breasts,  awake, 
Crowning  their  silences  with  song's  divine  outbreak. 


1 68  LAMENTS. 

The  swelling  buds,  the  grass 
On  the  far  hill-tops  springing  fresh  and  green, 
And  even  the  rifts  of  snow  (that  sunbeams  pass 
As  if  forgetting),  —  all  again  are  seen  ; 
And  the  same  heavens  look  down  with  unchanged 

blue, 
Though  they  have  hidden  from  me   the    fairest 

flower  that  grew. 

Yes  :  spring  returns  the  same, 
Yet  not  the  same  ;  for  wherefore  all  the  rest,  — 
The  rushing  life  that,  passionate,  makes  claim 
To  throb  itself  to  wild  flowers  on  Earth's  breast, 
The  violets,  birds,  sunshine,  or  grass,  —  when   he, 
More  beautiful  than  spring,  never  comes  back  to 

me  ? 


LAMENTS.  169 


HIS  THIRTEENTH  BIRTHDAY. 

Fast  fall  my  tears  to-day,  though  time  has  thrown 
Over  my  bitter  pain  its  healing  mist, 
And  memory  of  my  noble  boy  has  grown 
Like  a  sweet  dream,  in  which  ofttimes  I  kissed 
An  angel,  all  my  own. 

Fair  springs  have  come  and  gone,  and  bloom  and 

shine 

Of  sunny  summers,  since  he  went  away, 
And  I  but  think  of  him  as  one  divine ; 
Yet  sometimes  lightnings  of  hot  grief  will  play, 
Scathing  this  heart  of  mine. 

For  when  I  see  the  flowers  come  back  again, 
My  soul  is  glad,  until  I  swift  recall 
That  with  the  violet  eyes  of  spring  he  came, 
And  then  despair  and  love  and  longing  all 
Leap  suddenly  to  flame. 


i;o  LAMENTS. 

Oh,  my  lost  child  !  you  are  with  spring  so  blent, 
I  watch  for  you  when  it  comes  back  to  me  ; 
But  well  I  know  that  wheresoe'er  you  went 
You  are  my  own,  and  Death  as  Life  must  be 
God's  unsolved  mystery. 


LAMENTS.  171 


HIS  FOURTEENTH  BIRTHDAY. 

When  tulips  are  aflame, 
And  yellow  jonquils  gild  the  edge  of  spring  ; 
When  loosened  torrents  down  the  mountain  swing, 
Then  comes  a  day  my  sacred  tears  to  claim,  — 

His  birthday,  who  once  scanned 
The  soaring  bluebird  with  a  radiant  gaze, 
And  watched  the  blossoms  through  the  sunny  days, 
Until  his  short,  sweet  life  seemed  rainbow-spanned. 

Just  on  the  edge  of  spring 
He  strayed  to  heaven,  —  it  was  not  far  to  go  ; 
Smiling,  he  saw  its  skies  diviner  glow, 
And  climbed,  on  fairer  than  a  bluebird's  wing. 

And,  though  my  tears  fall  fast, 
I  know  how  large  yon  sphere,  —  I  am  content  : 
Eternal  rapture,  through  my  child's  soul  sent, 
May  flood  my  own,  and  give  him  back  at  last. 


i;2  LAMENTS, 


HIS  FIFTEENTH  BIRTHDAY. 

I  trod  with  you  Arcadian  fields  one  day, 
Oh,  child  divine  !  the  sunshine  at  our  feet  ; 
And  saw  the  clouds  that  floated  far  away, 
On  the  blue  breast  of  heaven  in  silence  meet : 
God  never  made  a  day  more  goldenly  complete. 

I  watched  the  flaming  sunset  while  it  grew 
And  twilight  bore  a  star  upon  its  breast ; 
Into  mine  own,  your  childish  palms  I  drew, 
With  love  too  infinite  to  be  expressed  : 
It  seemed  an  angel's  joy  to  hush  you,  dear,  to  rest. 

I  half  forgot  what  tragedies  were  mine, 

And  love  seemed  never-ending  dream  of  bliss  ; 

My  soul  was  tuned  to  rapture  so  divine, 

I  had  no  thought  for  other  Heaven  than  this  : 

In  the  whole  scale  of  joy  there  was  no  note  amiss. 


LAMENTS.  173 

No  fields  Arcadian  have  been  mine  to  tread, 
Since  that  fair  day  ;  but  thorny  paths  and  steep 
My  feet  have  pressed,  oh  child  !   and  your  young 

head 

Upon  my  happy  heart  I  could  not  keep : 
For,  hushed  by  a  diviner  Love,  you  fell  asleep. 


174  LAMENTS. 


HIS  TWENTY-FIRST  BIRTHDAY. 

Sweet,  that  to-day  would  be  a  child  no  more, 

Hail  !  for  this  golden  spring  thou  wilt  put  on 

The  crown  of  manhood  that  thy  years  have  won 

In  splendor  of  yon  heaven  !     And,  raptured,  o'er 

Ethereal  magnitudes  thy  soul  wilt  soar, 

Seeing  no  glimpse  of  shadow,  but  the  sun 

Forever  shining  near,  with  rays  that  run 

Irised  around  thy  brow.      /et  I,  who  bore 

Thee  on  my  heart  thine  earliest,  tenderest  years, 

May  on  this  birthday  only  from  afar 

Hail  thee,  beloved  !  Therefore  fall  my  tears 

On  violets  that  the  spring  grasses  star. 

Child  !     Man  !     Archangel !     When  I  search  the 

spheres, 
My  heaven  will  be  where'er  thy  young  smiles  are. 


LAMENTS.  175 


THOU  ART  AN  ANGEL. 

Thou  art  an  angel,  dear  ! 
Or  I  could  never  bear  thy  absence  here  : 
Hushed  are  the  lips  that  always  spake  my  name 
With  tenderest  love,  that  I  can  never  claim 
To  still  the  trembling  of  my  own  ;  days  go  ; 
The  laggard   hours  creep  on,  down-weighed  with 

woe, 

Yet,  wearing  into  years,  have  brought  this  day, 
The  second  time  since  thou  didst  float  away, 

My  own !  my  own ! 

Thou  art  an  angel,  sweet ! 

Or  else  my  heart  would  break,  knowing,  so  fleet 
Thy  winging,  that  my  last  farewell  was  caught 
Perchance  in  blaze  of  glory  seraphs  brought. 
Ah  !  I  have  wept  so  many,  many  tears 
Since  that  dread  parting  that  the  blissful  years 
Of  my  proud  ownership  do  only  seem 


176  LAMENTS. 

As  haunting  sweetness  of  a  vanished  dream  ! 
My  own  !  my  own  ! 

Thou  art  an  angel,  love ! 
If  it  were  not  for  this  belief  the  dove 
Of  peace  were  lost  in  distance  so  remote 
That  I  could  never  hear  one  fluttering  note  ; 
But  now  that  God  has  given  such  high  degree, 
Recalling  it,  and  that  I  still  may  be 
Not  less  thy  mother,  I  can  sometimes  soar 
To  resignation,  holding  thee  the  more 

My  heavenly  own  ! 


LAMENTS.  177 


MOONLIGHT. 

Through  the  gray  of  twilight  stealing, 
Shadowy  outlined  to  revealing, 
Like  the  white,  ethereal  phantom  of  a  far-off  sphere 

that  shone, 

Rose  the  moon,  supremely  tender, 
And,  as  haunted  by  the  splendor 
Of  the  day's  divine  surrender,  in  a  mist  it  hid  its 
own. 

One  by  one,  serenely  shining, 
Swift  approach  of  night  divining, 
Dropt,  as  from  some  sky  above  them,  in  a  flooding 

shower  of  gold, 

Rose  the  stars,  with  colors  burning, 
And  the  passion  of  their  yearning, 
In  an  ecstasy  discerning,  from  the  moon  its  misting 
roll'd. 


178  LAMENTS. 

Then,  across  the  full  sea's  flowing, 
Sprang  a  channel,  wider  growing, 
Clasping  with  its  silver  shining  deeps  that  poured 

from  shore ; 

And  with  maze  of  glory  blending, 
Slender  bars  of  light  ascending, 
To  the  white  heavens    over-bending,    scaled  the 
crystal  heart  it  bore : 

And  with  sadness  swept  to  weeping, 
I  remembered  one  rapt  sleeping, 
With  the  illumined  moonbeams  streaming  like  a 

halo  round  his  head, 
Never,  radiant  wooed,  to  waken, 
Crowned  with  silence  never  shaken, 
By  the  angels  overtaken,  and  I  —  grieving  by  the 
dead. 


LAMENTS.  179 


JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 

JUNE    8,     1888. 

Beeches  are  bowed  with  royal  gloom  ; 
Round  fresh  young  ferns  soft  shadows  play ; 
Bending  with  wealth  of  violet  bloom 

The  wild  geraniums  sway  ; 
Like  attar'd  sunshine,  lit  to  wings, 
The  butterflies  gay  haunt  the  air,  — 
Thin  phantoms  of  celestial  things 

Light  floating  everywhere. 
"  The  world  is  passing  fair,"  I  say,  — 

"  But  oh  for  yesterday  !  " 

The  clustering  barberry  blossoms  swing 
To  rhythmic  flow  of  breezes  soft, 
And  from  their  amber  petals  fling 
Their  perfumed  souls  aloft. 
The  birds  sing  mad'ningly  in  flight ; 
The  heavens  are  all  ablaze  with  blue ; 


1 8o  LAMENTS. 

The  sun  throbs  —  passionate  with  light  — 
Like  June's  heart  beating  through. 

"  The  world  is  passing  fair  "  I  say,  — 
"  But  oh  for  yesterday  !  " 

Yes  :  summer,  all  too  fair,  is  here  ! 
And  to  mine  eyes  the  hot  tears  start ; 
For  one,  divine  as  June,  and  dear, 

Lies  dead,  —  on  June's  warm  heart. 
Oh,  fitting  that  his  poet  head 
Here  rest,  with  thoughts  immortal  given, 
And  that  his  saintly  soul  be  led 

Through  bloom  of  June  to  Heaven  ! 
"  The  world  is  fair,  too  fair,"  I  say,  — 

"  And  oh  for  yesterday  !  " 


LAMENTS.  181 


MEMORIAL  DAY,   1885. 

It  is  not  hero's  grave  where  I  would  lay 
The  pure  white  lilies  I  have  plucked  to-day 

With  scalding  tears  ; 

But  grave  of  one  who  died  in  boyish  years  ; 
Who  to  a  noble  manhood  might  have  grown, 
And  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  glory  shone, 
And  brave  as  bravest  soldier  might  have  lain, 
After  the  heat  and  smoke  of  battle,  slain 

As  Christ  for  brother  men  ; 

Yet  even  then, 

Grown  to  a  higher  faith,  I  might  have  borne  the 
pain. 

But  that  my  little  child  went  out  alone 
Into  the  great  and  infinite  unknown, 

Seems  hard  to  bear  — 
While  strains  of  martial  music  rent  the  air. 
Four  years  to-day,  I  saw  the  soft  eyes  close 


182  LAMENTS. 

With  white  despair ;  yet  even  in  repose 

His  soul  seemed  listening,  and  the  notes  that  fell 

Froze  into  silence  of  divine  farewell ; 

Out  of  foreknowledge  deep 

(Too  fair  to  keep), 

Before  his  feet  were  tired,  "  God  gave  my  darling 
sleep." 

Oh,  mothers  !  torn  with  passionate  regrets, 
The  while  you  place  your  mourning  violets, 

Do  I  not  know 

The  graves  whereon  the  wild  flowers  softly  blow 
Hold  portions  of  your  heaven  ?    For  I  can  claim 
Kinship  with  each  of  you  in  Sorrow's  name. 
Let  me  among  your  number  stand,  as  one 
Who  has  given  up  her  last  remaining  son  ; 

Only  my  children  died 

Close  by  my  side ; 

And  long,  sweet  years  you  knew  I  weep  because 
denied. 


LAMENTS.  183 


SORROW. 

You  sing,  "  When  summer  comes  ;  "  ah,  love,  what 

then  ? 
It  will  not  bring  the  roses  back  again 

From  summer's  dead  : 

It  will  not  come  till  the  pale  spring  has  shed 
Its  many  tears,  and  whitened  lilies  lay 
Folded  upon  the  pulseless  heart  of  May  : 
Then,  other  flowers  may  grow,  and  long  days  pass, 
Gracing  the  earth  with  the  soft,  springing  grass  ; 
Thrushes  may  sing,  and  singing,  make  their  claim 
To  nests  low  builded  ;  morning  flowers  may  flame ; 
Yet  summer,  when  it  comes,  will  never  be  the  same. 

You  sing  "  When  summer  comes  ;  "  what  then  ?  I 

know 
The  fairest  summers  only  come  and  go ; 

Bliss  does  not  last. 

You  cannot  win  me  from  my  saddened  past ; 
Yet  I  remember  when  my  heart  upsprang, 


1 84  LAMENTS. 

Catching  the  ecstasy  of  birds  that  sang ; 
When  the  great  hush,  that  filled  expectant  days, 
Swept  me  to  purest  calm  ;  when  the  soft  haze 
Seemed  sent  to  veil  earth's  throbbing  joy  so  great, 
(As  rapture  sometimes  does  itself  create 
A  mist  of  sadness)  when  I  dared  to  claim 
A  part  in  Nature's  whole  ;  and    autumn  came ;  — 
After  one  autumn,  summer  cannot  seem  the  same. 

Nay  !  waiting  bloom  can  never  bring  to  grief 
The  old,  sweet  thrill  :  Promise  that  made  belief. 

Doubt  finds  a  place, 

Where  Death  has  left  such  bitter,  bitter  space. 
Oh,  Singer !  life  seems  all  too  sad  a  thing ; 
I  miss  the  lilies  of  the  vanished  spring, 
And  tender  words  that  never  can  be  said  ; 
I  miss  the  roses  of  my  summer's  dead  : 
The  subtle  essence  of  love's  past  is  pain  ; 
Yet  reaching  Heaven,  God  may  distil  again, 
And  a  long  summer  come,  that  Death  shall  not 
profane. 


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This  little  volume  is  all  that  remains  to  us  of  the  many- 
gifted  man  who  came  to  Boston  a  few  years  ago,  a  stranger  and 
unheralded,  and  took  his  place  among  her  best  poets  and 
orators  by  the  right  divine  of  genius. 

Letter  and  Spirit.    Bj  A.  M.  RICHARDS. 

By  the  wife  of  the  celebrated  American  artist,  WILLIAM  T. 
RICHARDS.  Psychological  and  devotional  in  character, 
and  taking  a  high  rank  in  American  poetry.  Square  i2mo, 
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No  common,  thoughtless  verse-maker  could  produce,  in 
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Letter  and  Spirit  is  a  book  to  be  studied  and  treasured.  — 
Boston  Advertiser. 

An  admirable  command  over  the  difficulties  of  the  sonnet  is 
shown.  —  Gazette,  Boston. 

Margaret  and  the  Singer's  Story.    By  EFFIE 

DOUGLASS  PUTNAM.     Second  Edition.    i6mo,   white  cloth, 
$1.25. 

Graceful  verses  in  the  style  of  Miss  Proctor,  by  one  of 
the  same  faith  :  namely,  a  Roman  Catholic. 

In    Diyers   Tones.       By  HERBERT  WOLCOTT 

BOWEN.     i6mo,  half  yellow  satin,  white  sides,  $1.15. 
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Auld  Scots  Ballads,  edited  by  ROBERT  FORD. 

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RECENT  AMERICANA. 


Paul    Revere :     A   Biography.      By    ELBRIDGE 
HENRY  Goss. 

Embellished  with  illustrations,  comprising  portraits,  his 
torical  scenes,  old  and  quaint  localities,  views  of  colonial 
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uts,  including  many  of  Paul  Revere's  own  caricatures  and 
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vols.,  8vo,  cloth, '$6.00;  large  paper,  $10.00. 

Porter's  Boston.     Forty  full-page,  and  over  fifty 
smaller   illustrations,  by  GEORGE  R.  TOLMAN.      zd  edition. 
i  vol.,  large  quarto,  half  sealskin,  £6.00. 
A  few  copies  of  the  exceedingly  scarce  first  edition  can  be 

had  by  direct  application  to  the  publisher,  specially  bound  in 

half  calf  extra,  for  $9.00  net. 

The    Diary    of    Samuel    Sewall,    1674-1729. 

Edited  by  DR.  G.  E.  ELLIS,  W.  H.  WHITMORE,  H.  W. 
TORREY  and  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.  With  index  of  names, 
places  and  events.  3  vols.,  large  8vo.  Net,  Jio.oo. 

This  is  a  complete  copy  (printed  at  the  University  Press) 
of  the  famous  diary  of  Chief  Justice  Sewall,  the  manuscript  of 
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reference  to  names  of  early  American  families. 

Acts  of  the  Anti-Slavery  Apostles.     By  PARKER 

PILLSBURY.     I2nio,  503  pages,  cloth.     Net,  $2.00. 

An  authoritative  and  comprehensive  work  by  one  of  the 
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exceedingly  scarce  book. 

Life  of  Admiral  Sir  Isaac  Coffin,  Baronet :  His 

English   and  American   Ancestors.     By  Thomas  C.  Amory. 

With  portrait.     Large  8v.'.     Jfet,$i.s°- 

An  elaborate  biography  of  one  of  Naiuucket's  most  famous 
sons,  who  rose  to  high  rank  in  the  British  navy,  and  afterwaris 
founded  the  celebrated  Coffin  schools  in  his  native  island. 
Interesting  not  only  to  members  of  the  Coffin  family,  but  to 
genealogists. 

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FOR     THE    SEEKER     AND    FOR 
THE   SORROWFUL. 

The  Sunny  Side  of  Bereavement :  as  Illustrated 

in   Tennyson's  "  In    Memoriam."     By    REV.  CHARLES   E. 
COOLEDGE.     i2mo,  parchment  paper,  50  cents. 

For  a  sorrowing  friend,  nothing  could  be  more  appro 
priate,  or  more  comforting  and  helpful.  —  ZION'S  HERALD. 

Whence  1  What  I  Where  ?    By  J.  R.  NICHOLS. 

i2tk  ed.     With  portrait.     i6mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  .$1.25. 
Fourteenth  thousand* 

The    World    Moves.      By  A  LAYMAN.      i6mo, 

cloth,  $1.00. 

A  little  book,  but  one  that  has  made  a  mighty  commotion 
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It  has  brought  forth  thousands  of  letters  to  the  unknown 
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NE  W    VOL  U21ES  OF  HUMOR. 

Aunt    Nabby :     Her  Rambles,    Her  Adventures 
and  Her   Notions.  .  By   L.    B.    EVANS.       Second  Edition. 
With  illustrations.     i6mo,  cloth,  $ i.oo. 
A  capital  addition  to  Yankee,  i.  e.,  New  England  humor, 

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Anld  Scots  Humor :  By  ROBERT  FORD.  Illus 
trated.  Uniform  with  "  A uld  Scots  Ballads. "  i  vol.,  344 
pages,  i6mo,  cloth.  Net,  $1.75.  Nearly  ready. 

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MEDICAL    BOOKS  FOR   LAY 
READERS. 


Therapeutic  Sarcognomy :  A  New  Science  of 

Soul,  Brain  and  Body.  By  JOSEPH  RODES  BUCHANAN. 
M.  D.  Illustrated.  With  glossary.  i  vol.,  large  8vo, 
700  pages,  cloth.  A^,$5-oo. 

A  work  which  promises  to  create  a  total  revolution  in  phy 
siology  and  medical  philosophy. 

Sea-Sickness.    How  to  Avoid  It.    By  HERMAN 

PARTSCH,  M.  D.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

A  valuable  little  volume  that  should  be  in  the  hands  of 
every  person  who  makes  a  sea  voyage.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

We  cannot  recall  a  work  that  deals  more  thoroughly  or 
more  understandingly  with  the  matter.  —  Boston  Saturday 
Evening  Gazette. 

The  Care  of  the  Eyes  in  Health  and  Disease. 

By  D.  N.  Skinner,  M.  D.,  Maine  Medical  Society.  Illustra 
ted.  With  index.  lamo,  116  pages,  cloth,  $1.00 

A  valuable  treatise,  written  for  the  general  public  by  one 
of  the  best  known  experts  on  the  subject. 

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the  publisher. 

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